Left in Grey

Why is it that even when our brain lays everything out—how it’s going to end, how it’s not meant to last—our heart still clings to hope? Not even hope for a fairytale ending, just this tiny desperate wish that maybe, somehow, it won’t fall apart?

I still remember how this… I don’t even know what to call it—situationship? mutual understanding? mess?—started. I was the one who told him not to fall. It was just supposed to be fun. No strings. And yet, here I am, three months later, confused as hell.

He just told me he submitted his resignation. “Sorry, I submitted a resignation,” he said—as if that apology could soften the blow that our little office escape is coming to an end. I can’t even ask him what I really want to ask—what I am to him. I don’t have the courage. But deep down, I already know. I’ve talked to myself enough to understand the truth: this was always going to end. I was always going to get hurt. He knew exactly what he was doing—that’s why he kept me in the dark.

And yet here I am, crying ugly tears over a man I was never supposed to love. I don’t even know what this pain is—love? attachment? ego? All I know is that it hurts like hell knowing I won’t see him again.

I’ve fought too many battles in life to be this wrecked over someone who was never really mine. But still, even knowing he was never going to choose me, my heart can’t help but wish he would.