Jin

I don't want to write this one about her, because it means I have to let her go.

And 1 year, 21 days, and 6 hours later I still spray her perfume on the neckpillow she bought me.

And 1 year, 21 days, and 6 hours later I still go to bed thinking about all the amazing places I want to travel with her.

And 1 year, 21 days, and 6 hours later I still wish I had an answer that provided a more solid "why".

And 1 year, 21 days, and 6 hours later I still don't want to begin the healing process.

I wrote to get past the difficult obstacles in my life, and when I met her, and told her I liked her, and she offered to travel to meet me, I stopped feeling compelled to write.

I don't even know what to write to find closure. Every other woman I've ever written about, there was a conflict. A macguffin to the breakup. One of us acted in a way that the other simply couldn't stand.

Not her though. We never fought, except playfully. We never argued unless it was absurd. Even in our disagreement, we had so much common ground that we seemed to only disagree on the details.

She cried the first time she tried to break it off with me. She begged me to hate her. I couldn't do that. She hadn't given me anything to hate her for, and although she was certainly capable, she never drew that dagger and used it to cut me.

But 6 hours, 21 days, and 1 year ago, was the last time she ever talked to me. Silent every since.

I hope she's okay. I hope if she's found love since, that he or she treats her better than I did. And I hope she sometimes goes to bed thinking about that trip to New York we never took. I hope she fantasizes, just for a moment about ringing me up, out of the blue and asking if I'm "still game" for that vacation.

And I hope she's okay when I tell her I'm not "still game."

Because I wrote this, and I'll probably write several more.

Because I have to let her go.