I refer back to my blog last year, called 'I really fucked it up this time, didn't I my dear'. I want to amend something that it has taken almost exactly two years for me to figure out, remember, or at least, just have a clear enough head to realise.
I miss him. He was so much of my life, so much of me, and he was my best friend. And the hole is still there, from where he just disappeared.
A few moments were so perfect, and so beautiful, and I want to remember them. I want, when someone mentions his name, or when I'm driving near his house, to remember those amazing moments.
Sitting on the common, we'd been for a long walk, chatting away as usual, and we sat on the bench up by the duck pond, and the sun was setting over Southampton in front of us, and he asked me to be his girlfriend. I was so happy, and we walked down to the Cowherds and had a nice meal and I was so in love with him that day.
I used to pick him up from the top of his road: his house is down a dead-end street, so he'd walk up to the crossroads, and I'd come from the opposite direction, so when I came over the hill I could see him standing there, hair quaffed, nice jeans and shoes on, bag packed with spare pants and little else, and a smile on his face. We would spend so much time together in my car.
Dropping him off, I never wanted him to leave. We'd be there for hours talking, kissing, holding hands, wishing that the night could be ours together.
We were lying in my bed at uni, the window wide open, heads on the windowsill, looking up at the stars. We were under the duvet, cuddling, and he sang to me. He's the only person who ever sang to me.
He was on my doorstep holding a rose. And he had purposefully been on a mission through Southampton to find me a rose, because he knew I'd never been given flowers before. I took pictures of it so it will never wilt.
I can understand why he doesn't want to see me, or acknowledge my existence. I just miss him. I want to know whats happening in his life, what his little sister is called, what he's doing post-university, and there's just this hole.
I never got over him; I never had the time. I just forgot to think about him.
The really strange thing is that I used to believe he was the one. No matter how much we went through, I still believed that we'd be together again, we'd make it through, and we'd get married one day, have children and a dog and a nice house in the Home counties and the whole dream that we constantly spoke about felt so real, so attainable, and I don't know where that emotion went. I wonder whether part of my psychology has turned that assured future into a longing for a companion good enough to marry. Like, I've now set that in my sights. And maybe, in an even weirder, deeper way, thats why I had to leave Brighton and break up with Martin: because I could never see us getting married. Maybe, as much as I know I have broken too many people's hearts in the past, maybe I also broke myself.
Maybe I'm looking into this too much.
Needless to say, I hope that I'm not broken. And I also hope that somewhere in his anger, Whall can remember that good times too.