You are not the boy I fell in love with when I was nineteen. And I’m not her anymore.
As time passes, I realize more and more that that’s fine. Life drags you into separate directions, and love loosens it’s grip as the world progresses. Time heals and dreams become larger. Things become simultaneously easier and harder to deal with all at once, and happy is as happy does, I suppose.
A hundred days ago, the idea of leaving was breaking me. Today, I am not her. And that sucks.
In an ideal world, we would never change. There would be enough; a defined enough that encompasses everything – all feelings of inadequacies aside. In an ideal world, there would be no leaving, no left behinds. no gones and most importantly, no forgetting.
But ideal worlds themselves suck, and after a while you realize that ideals change simply because people change, until all that you’re left with is the very surreal, mundane realization that you’re not the same person anymore, and when did that happen, and how do you change it, and understanding, without an inkling of actually knowing that…
You are not that boy I fell in love with when I was nineteen, and I am not her anymore.