There were times when I felt myself missing her so deeply I thought I would fall down the black vacant hole she left when she walked out and then there were times I was disturbedly calm about her absence, as if I had never met her, never loved her.
The latter bothered me more. It meant I was healing, but it also meant I would become indifferent and I feared that the indifference would fade out the beautiful memories we made, watering them down to a bland tasteless point. I never wanted to look at her photo and feel a detached sense of knowing, like seeing the mail man but not caring at all what his life might be like.
I had loved her. Deeply. To feel anything else made me feel almost unhuman. After all, she was like my life, and we shared a life, a wonderful one. We were two halves making one. It was the greatest gift and adventure of my life. To love is the most fulfilling kind of suffering. I did not want to heal. Not completely.
But as I pack away her things, wash her scent from my clothes, and meet new people she becomes nothing more than a moment, something that occurred in my life. It’s significance, her significance, would dull out till it lost all meaning.
Or maybe, perhaps maybe what I was truly afraid of was becoming that to her. She would see me one day while she was walking with a new boyfriend and would say “he’s just someone I used to date.”