I met my ex boyfriend at a party last night. Although I hadn’t seen him for two years he looked exactly the same. Perhaps even slightly broader over the shoulders, but it could have been the jacket. I think he was a little shocked to see me as a brunette. I think he was shocked to see me at all.
We were together for four years and a half, but it ended four years ago. I’ve heard that there is a general four years cycle, a pattern that makes us seek change around that time, which often brings us to turning points in our relationships.
We grew apart as cliché as that sounds. There was no drama, no below-the-belt remarks, no discussion. We cared too much for each other.
It was great to see him again.
To see him as the man he has become. To remember us as 20 year-olds playing house. To know what it would feel like to touch him. To decide that I wouldn’t do us that disfavour.
To stand in the middle of the subway, holding each other, hearing him say with forced strength that I was never his to keep and that he wishes I’d go out and meet the man I am supposed to make happy and what the hell was I doing in Sweden anyway?
In the background a street musician was playing “I’m tired of using technology, I need you right in front of me”.
I felt like Gwyneth Paltrow in Sliding Doors. What could have been different, had I caught another train? What was in front of me because I didn’t? Does it matter anyway when all versions blend into one, undeniable reality.
And I cried in his arms for reasons he will never understand.
We put one foot in front of the other, never knowing where we are going, never knowing what we leave behind and what’s worth keeping. At the end of the day, we only have what we acknowledge.
The doors may be relentlessly sliding but the trains are continuously coming.
I took the one to where my friends were and we danced and drank until early morning.