The first time was my choice. After a few “I love you” texts, after an awkward date, I stepped back. I do not remember what I told myself then, but now I know I was simply scared. I was not ready for love.
The second time was obvious. It was meant to happen, it could not have been any other way. It was not my fault and it was definetely not yours. It hurt anyway.
The third time I convinced myself it was the best choice. I turned away from you, but I kept pulling you back. I asked you to meet me mid-way, but I was not willing to be there with you. I broke your heart way more than you broke mine.
The fourth time was a thousand times. I can write pages and pages and it will never be enough. It broke my heart, my trust, my soul. You took everything.
The fifth time I thought I would break your heart. But you broke mine. You left me waiting for a goodbye kiss that never came. You declared your love to me and took it away the very next day. If it sounds like a Christmas song, that is how I felt. A seasonal love.
The sixth time came as unexpectedly as it could be. I trusted you and you twisted the knife all the way to my trust. You were not ready for love.
The seventh time was a consequence of the sixth. You could not get what you wanted.
The eighth time was slow. Not painful, I realised. It burned low from the beginning and it burned low in the end. There were no explosions, no fighting back. It just ceased to exist.
The ninth time left me wondering.
The tenth time I was ready. I knew I had to break your heart, so I did it. I was careful to be gentle, to be kind. I hope I got it right.
The eleventh time swept me away. From you, from myself. It broke all the pieces I had mended before. In the exact patterns, it re-opened wide the cracks that were already there. I am still trying to decide if it was for the best or not.
I keep telling myself that love is worth all the heartbreaks.
26.04.2022 — Zagreb