this isn't progress, because you're irreversible.

You were never meant for me.

I knew it in the most obvious manner. It was in the way you had a subtle sort of comfort in your own skin – a quiet and humble confidence – while I struggled to make sense of the prints on my fingertips and the way one of my eyes crinkled in the corner more than the other when I smiled. You felt safe with yourself while I was always warring with my own reflection. Half the time, I didn't know who I was. A quarter of the time, I still don't. You would call this progress if you were here to see, but I just call it sad.

When you miss something for long enough, you start to forget the exact way that things happened. Or the exact way they happened to fall apart. For instance, I don't remember the first time you didn't call, but I do remember when you told me you loved me – but not enough. It's never enough, is it? The point is you were gone before I could even say goodbye. You were gone before you were ever really here, but somehow I let myself build a forever with you. I swear the world could end, and I wouldn't even notice – that's how self involved I am. I still can't remember how our story went, but I can't forget the way it felt. This is what it's like living in reverse. This is what you would call a relapse even though we both know it was completely unavoidable.

I still haven't learned a thing. I still believe in happily-ever-afters, and every time I see something that reminds me of you, my breath still catches in lungs, and I still say I'm lost even after you told me I couldn't be, since I never know where I'm going to begin with. You liked me hopeless and sad, because it gave you someone to take care of. I liked you, because you were better than me, but eventually, this was the sort of equation that we never could add up. I'm beginning to see that I wrote us a better story, because I could live with a lie better than I could deal with fixing the truth. Not much bothers me anymore, but I still wonder when love will ever be enough and whether anyone is really meant for anything anymore. You would tell me to keep trying, but I'm already wondering how I wasted another year on you.

You will never be meant for me. I knew this. I know this.