You might be the Preston Burke to my Christina Yang.

I think of you, you know. Each day, everyday. Especially now, when all universe seems like a void. Surprisingly, unlike those novels and poetry that I read, you don’t fill in that void. But I guess that’s why I like to keep my distance.

I sense that you want me and need me as much as I did at one point of time. Sense? No, I don’t mean in a sixth-sense soul-mates kind of way. I sense it from your voice. At how defeated you sound in your texts and your calls, the total of ten times we interacted in the past year. Of course I noticed. Your ex-best friend, as you graciously signed off sometime back. How could I not notice?

I looked back all year looking for clues that we were breaking away from each other-shredding into pieces- pieces of me with you and you me. No wonder we were devastated. I knew I was getting better. I knew I was healing. I could feel it. I was no longer that lost person who didn’t know what was going on. I was growing and I had sincerely hoped you were too.

I thought hard. Everyday I thought why we weren’t together. You did love me. Was I scared? Of course I was scared. You were breaking each of my walls with your love, and I let you. It was a trust exercise, alright. But I let you. And you hurt me. Perhaps unintentionally, but you did. And there I was-standing stark naked to you, in the icy chill that you left me in-defenseless.

But you came back. And I let you break those walls again. And this time you didn’t run. But I didn’t trust you. We were both idiotic, of course. And I ran instead. Every guy I mentioned you got jealous, and every girl you dated, I got jealous also. But it didn’t stop us. We did what we did. We were who we wanted to be, but in this complicated web of feelings and emotions, tangled beyond repair.

And we stopped. I know I did tell you things. But I had a life too. I couldn’t help but feel miserable because I ditched you when you needed me most. But I had to. You don’t have to see it, because it was selfish of me- but you had taught me to say no, and I did. I had to figure out things that didn’t matter. But I did.

So I thought. Everyday. Of what my feelings were for you. Until a week back, when I realized you had cracked the code years back. We are different people than who we were when we first fell in love.And we grew separately from there, and dragged it, going back to an older self that was nothing but a lie now.  And so we fell apart. And now, that I realized that we couldn’t be together, unless we were ready to let go of being mature adults and live in a fantasy land of Crescents of Moon and Black Beauty and Historic Heroes (the opinions on each, too, have changed), we wouldn’t be happy. And knowing this was the thing that made me happy. That letting you go wasn’t wrong at all

And then, you called today. My instinct told me to cut your call and I did. A couple of times. Then I switched it off, and thought why I did cut it. But I noticed it again. A kind of heat spreading through my body- not the good kind either. It felt like poison- like something was getting rotten inside me. No, not a demonic power. Just something- like when you want to throw up, or you are in-between getting a bad cold. I was uneasy. You made me uneasy. Or was that just me?

And then I called you back and we talked for about half an hour. With awkward pauses, that somehow made me feel better- at least those weren’t awkward words. I noticed how different our worlds are today. And that, my darling- the awkward chuckles and awkward words and beautiful silences- made me realize that I had truly moved on. And I don’t regret it-or you- one bit. It makes me incredibly happy and liberated.

You might be the Preston Burke to my Christina Yang. And I am glad it will stay that way.

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About TheBlackWallflower

I'm just your average unique person. I love to read and write (no surprises there, eh?) and think a lot. I adore Rowling and think Harry Potter should be a religion. I also hate pink. I love fluff generally because it makes me feel intelligent and I love poetry because it makes me feel different. (yes, references.) I'm married to Sirius Black. So I sign myself as The Bitch alarmingly often. Oh, and I love Mr. Darcy. And Jo Longo. And Chandler Bing. And Sherlock. (Yes, I'm a fantard.) And in case you want to drop in a good, or a critical word, feel free to email me: theblackwallflower@gmail.com OR, follow me on Twitter: @WallflowerBlack Enough with the babble. OkBye. View all posts by TheBlackWallflower

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