I'm trying real hard not to talk about how heartbreaking it is to leave this place.
I'm convincing myself that putting my life in boxes is exciting and not just fucking sad. I'm trying to forget that all these boxes symbolize that failed relationship that saved me from everything, that kept me sane when the rest of the world failed to. That I've never, ever felt more at home than I did here, and that I probably won't for a very long time. That this place is the place where I've felt the safest, where I've been the happiest, where I've laughed the most, where I've loved the most - that I've loved
the most.
the most.
And leaving Ninove was hard as fuck, but it was the easiest (and best) thing I ever did; putting everything in boxes went so fast, you can't even imagine. And I couldn't wait to get away from all those memories, from that room, from that house. And the future, that looked like a black hole, still looked brighter than it had for a long time. But packing my stuff from this apartment, my apartment, just feels like putting little pieces of my heart in boxes; again and again, and pretending that it's all fine.
Because that's basically what it's about, pretending that it's fine that it's over, pretending that I'm happy about moving, pretending that I'm fine. Not talking about all the mistakes that will forever haunt me, not talking about all the flashbacks, and about all the memories that will be there forever. And I've never been less excited about the TV shows starting again, because my favorite shows became ours. And the nights that we spent watching them; and ordering food at 1 o'clock in the night 3 nights in a row because we're lazy fucks who sleep during the day; and skipping class to walk around in the city without any purpose. And waking up to go eat out, because everything is so much cheaper at lunch, and going back home to sleep, because, again, we're lazy fucks who sleep during the day. And buying hundreds of books, expensive books for me because I'm a snob, second hand books for him because he's not; and having two libraries that are messy as fuck because we both have so many books and we're lazy fucks who don't organize our shit. And fighting, and yelling, and crying, and making up, and laughing. And playfully fighting in bed, and laughing until it hurts, and continuing to laugh anyway. And making jokes only we understand, and laughing while people think we're crazy, and maybe we were, maybe we are. And loving, and knowing I was loved, and having a home, and having stability. And never lying to each other when we looked each other in the eyes; and telling each other everything all the time; and that bad feeling I couldn't repress whenever I was withholding information from him, even if it had nothing to do with him. And sleeping with him, and waking up next to him. And the millions of gifts. And not knowing some random fact about literally anything, and asking him, because he knows everything all the time. And making fun of people without them noticing, and the looks that meant everything, and the talks without words. And breaking up, but still getting along better than most couples who (think they) are happy. And it's me who broke it all, so I don't have the right to think about that, I don't have the right to talk about that, I don't have the right to be heartbroken. So I pretend it's okay; and I pretend I'm not sad when I see people who've been dating since April 2012 and are still together; or when I see young couples move in together; or when I hear about people our age who are happy and engaged and free of doubts, and so full of love. Because it's not okay to want to be them, while simultaneously wanting to be free; it's not okay to throw our efforts, our love, our future away, while simultaneously wanting it with all my heart. None of this is ok, and that's why we don't talk about it, and that's why we pretend I'm fine.
And some of my friends think that having a big house (to share with three others) is better than having an apartment with your boyfriend; but it's not, it's really not (for multiple reasons that I won't state here). And I know that it makes no sense whatsoever to want to stay in this apartment, while we're both so hurt (him obviously more than me) and fight so much, just to hold on to the memories, and to the first and only home I've ever had, and to 'us'. So I pretend that I'm happy about leaving the tensions, and I ignore the fact that I'm also leaving the happiness.
And that's why I'm convincing myself that putting my life in boxes is exciting and not just fucking sad. And that's why I don't talk about how heartbreaking it is to leave this place.
Make A Wish
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