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Tired of Chasing My Ex

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I dated this guy for a little over a year, and I’m only a teenager, at the point where a year is a very long time to make someone a part of your life. It’s been nine months since we broke up, and I despise having to say this, but—I’m still in love with him.

Just how could this happen? How did I get here, sitting in the house of the one I love, while he has no idea? Maybe a little background information might help.

My sister introduced us at a local coffeehouse where our friends go to just chill. We got together a few months afterward, and that summer was the best part of my life so far. But he was gone a lot, off learning Capoeira, an Afro-Brazilian martial art. I missed him so much, but I put up with it because I was so much in love with him. But by the time spring came around, I started breaking down. I considered ending it many times, even put us on hold for several days.

Finally, I did an incredibly stupid thing. I still wanted him but I wanted more of him. So I thought, in my messed up way, that if I broke up with him, he’d realize how stupid he’d been and that he should have spent more time with me. So that’s what I did. I told him I wasn’t “feeling this anymore.” It was the strangest feeling. I didn’t have a boyfriend and I missed him, but I was so confident that I’d have him back. One week later, the next time I saw him, I went up and told him that I wanted him back.

He rejected me. I was shocked. Had he always felt this way? Had he wanted to end it and just been too chicken to do it? Did he get over me that quickly? I pleaded and argued with him for the next two hours, but his mind was made up.

At home that night, I was a wreck. I went straight to bed, not bothering to get undressed, and cried myself to sleep. I’d just realized I’d done quite possibly the worst thing ever: I’d purposefully pushed away someone I was still in love with, and for no good reason. I should have been content with what I had.

I didn’t see him for three months. We’d agreed to be friends, which I was grateful for, but even though I called him a few times, I got nothing from him. He wasn’t even at the coffeehouse that he’d been visiting for much longer than I had. I was convinced he was avoiding me.

But he showed up there one night, and, in another display of my messed up thoughts, I went and told him that I was mad, and that while I didn’t want back what we had (which I did), I at least wanted to be friends with him. I guess I wanted to appear strong in front of him.

And we did become friends after that. I could talk to him about anything in the world and for hours. I’d spend nights at his house, which was more than I’d done when we were dating. His family adores me and I love them. And all the while, I was missing him such an incredible amount. I even tried to make him jealous by putting myself in a made-up relationship with someone else. I was ready to try everything.

So now I’m here. I’m at his house again, on a bright Sunday morning. I’m sitting at the breakfast table by myself, being the only one up. And I’m realizing something. I don’t want this anymore. I love it here, and I love him still, but this isn’t right. I can’t do it anymore.

I’ve started to become disenchanted with him. He quit college to work two jobs and started smoking. He still acts the same around me as he did since we became friends, but after chasing after him and hiding it for so long, I’m exhausted. My heart can’t take any more cuts.

I have other things to live for. I’m strong, independent, and brilliant. I don’t need to have him back to live my life. There will be others, that is certain. I can and will be happy without him. I’m cutting myself off and it feels incredible. I’m free to fly.

I’ll stick around here long enough to tell him that he may not see me for a while, but he won’t know just how long.

I leave for Baltimore in the fall.

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