He’s moving back to Boston.
“Are you okay?” my friend asks. “She needs to cry about it,” the other says.
“I need to process,” I say.
This chapter is coming to a close just as another one opens. It’s annoyingly poetic; maybe that’s how I know it has all turned out as it should.
I lie in bed and my mind flashes back, the memories come rolling in, paralyzing me. I never intended to fall in love with him but I also knew it was inevitable from the moment we met. He’s not even the one that got away; simply the one that didn’t work. In some ways, that brings me comfort. I said everything I needed to say; I laid my cards out on the table time and time again.
That brown-haired, blue-eyed, Harvard volleyball player has had such a significant impact on my life. He taught me that true understanding is possible. He showed me what it’s like to feel seen. He held my heart in his hands and he tried to be gentle.
Now, there’s a new man in my bed. He’s sweet, thoughtful, and has a strong sense of self. He is patient and kind. He keeps his word and tells me exactly how he feels about me. For the first time, I am not anxious about my relationship. I am excited to explore this new one while grieving the past…can both be true?
Flash forward a couple of months; a whirlwind of trips, disagreeing and making up, quiet kitchen moments, and cracking each other up. When he tells me he loves me, I know he means it.
Sometimes, my heart bursts when he walks through my door. Love and fear entangled. It’s scary, letting someone in again. But something tells me that he’s worth it. My knowing this time is calm; a ribbon of faith. But there’s proof, in the way he looks at me. It’s in the way I look at him.
We dance in the kitchen and he kisses me in front of his friends. He wants to spend Christmas with my family and Thanksgiving with his.
I get a call from the brown-haired, blue-eyed, Harvard Volleyball COACH. He’s in Boston, he loves his job, he is happy…and so am I. Happy for him and happy for me. We will always be friends and my heart will always hold space for him, but he is where he is supposed to be, as am I.
It has taken me months to write this essay and it’s still not done. Or, I’m not done. Healing, growing, learning what healthy love looks and feels like. A story in progress.
Hugs,
Elisabeth
