Maybe I’ve met my end.
No, not my life’s end–good grief, I’ve got so many goals to achieve.
I mean my love’s end. Maybe I’ve already met him and now my heart knows what it’s like to meet someone so significant and it’s felt the happiest it could possibly be, and everything else pales, blanches, in comparison; everything else dissipates in his presence, blinded, pierced by his overpowering light.
No one else could even dream of overshadowing him.
Maybe the ghost inside me knows he’s something special, that I shouldn’t give up on him. It claws at my heartstrings, yanking and breaking them, when I try to move on, be with someone else. I feel like I have to try with every fiber of my being to feel with someone else the way he made me feel. It doesn’t ever feel right, nor does it ever end well.
I guess I could never admit it aloud because I didn’t know or… maybe I was too scared.
And now I do. Now, I know.