I don’t think I can explain to you the silent rage I felt last Wednesday.
You were supposed to give me back the things I said I left at your apartment.
This was my ploy to give you the chance to apologize to my face, not over a damn text message.
You left my stuff in a bag, slung on the doorknob of your office at the university. Two notes:
“Your stuff Farah” and the other “Love only comes once. Believe [followed by a heart shape]”.
I wanted to leave you a note that said “Fuck you fucking coward who can’t for the life of him give a person a damn apology when you’ve been the car that’s driving over me, and then reversing and you’ve been playing this twisted game for the last 4.5 years of my life.” But I didn’t leave you a note.
I sat down for a second because I needed to breathe. I ripped up your note and left it on the floor so you would see it. For once my first thought was not that I must exert so much energy to do any of this but to give up and take this as a sign to do nothing. To pick myself off the dirty floor, walk slowly down the stairs, get in my car and drive far away from you, from me, and from me wanting you.
The truth is, I just didn’t have pen and paper.