To the boy I used to fuck once every 1-2 weeks for six months who messaged me this monday and told me he needed to take a break to distance himself because he was getting too jealous seeing me flirt with other guys

Today, I’m angry. I didn’t think I would be. I didn’t think I would still be thinking about your stupid message. But I’m also not surprised that I am. 
Yesterday I was relieved. Yesterday I was almost grateful, grateful that you did what I tried to do but was too weak to follow through with. 
I knew we were bad news. I knew it from the beginning, that trying to arrange an intimate ‘relationship’ between two people who weren’t allowed to care about each other was never going to work. I knew that day we sat side by side on the wooden bench in fort mason, you trying to convince me this was a good idea, your arm around me as we looked out simultaneously into the shimmering san francisco bay. I knew in the elevator coming down from your hotel room that new york city morning after a drug-induced night of reverie, when you met my smile by averting your eyes. I knew that night as I crossed the street to greet you in north beach, when seeing you standing there, tall and handsome, made my heart leap in a way that scared me somewhere deep in my bones. I knew after we fucked on my creaky twin bed after going to the strip club, when you left for the night with a slice of golden boy pizza in your stomach and my dignity in your hands. I knew when we talked about life over naan and paneer post the nox yoga bootcamp, our bodies 5 millimeters away from each other, so careful not to make actual contact. And I knew when I invited you over on sunday, a last ditch attempt at repairing our shaky non-relationship comprised of weeklong silences strung together by drunken nights. 
But still, I wish I was the one who eventually ended it, not you. And that’s my pride speaking, whatever of it I have left. I tried so hard to keep my distance. I told myself all the rational things, all the truths. That we had nothing in common, that you were too young, that you were so not my type, that I had come to san francisco to find a razor sharp, devastatingly worldly, handsome-as-hell entrepreneur with burning ambition, not a guy from new jersey who wasn’t sure what he wanted in life and was completely closed off to anything remotely resembling commitment.
You made me cave twice, after defiantly announcing I was done with you only to come crawling back into your arms. Don’t give yourself too much credit for it though. This was mainly due to my weakness, and not your charm. I couldn’t walk away from the idea of having someone there, of physical intimacy but also affection, validation, affirmation that I was hot, that I was an object of desire. Finding other people was hard, and that one time I thought I had found someone else, the whole thing crashed and burned in a blaze of glory. But that wasn’t just it. I need to be honest. In the beginning, I was so sure I didn’t want to have anything to do with you, that you bore no resemblance to anyone I could actually have feelings for. But somehow, life threw me a curveball. And yes, I admit it, I had been catching those pesky little feelings in my butterfly net for a while. 
I’m really not sure what it is, but I think it is something like this. You are authentic, down to earth and unapologetic about who you are. There is not a pretentious bone in your body. You are flawed and you understand that, and you are continuously trying to better yourself, however that ideal person in your mind might be and whether I agree with those ideals or not. You are honest to a fault, honest with your past scars, your present feelings, your future intentions. You are strong– arguably stronger than I am, with the conviction and self control to stick to what you believe is right for you. You are kind and genuinely trying to be a good person, despite constantly saying things that strike me as insensitive and ignorant, despite often coming off as a dick. But I know that’s a facade. I’ve gotten to know you, despite your consistent efforts to push me away, and I can see the person that you are inside. You’re not Drake. You’re not Connor McGregor. You’re just a normal person. But somehow you made it outside the window of my heart. You looked in. And I saw you. 
And now we are at the ending. A wise man once said, things don’t end unless they end badly. I don’t believe in month-long breaks. The truth is you knew we were getting too close, and you got scared. Despite the fact that we barely see each other already, that we never do anything remotely date-y, that nearly all our encounters are insured by the excuse of group hangouts and alcohol, it still happened. And so you want me out of your life, so you can be you again. Aloof, always in control, chasing the one thing you presumably want more than anything out of life. Power. 
Do you know what I think is powerful? Someone who isn’t afraid to confront their feelings, who is willing to take the ultimate risk, who can just take things as they go and let the universe do its work. Do I think we were meant to be together, or that we even should date? No, and that’s not necessarily what I want either. But I also take whatever life throws at me, and when I feel things develop I’m open to see where they go. I’m not afraid of getting hurt. I’ve been hurt many, many times. And yet still every time, I throw myself into the fire because I think, maybe, just maybe it could be worth it this time. 
And this brings me back to why I’m angry. I’m angry because you are so guarded and so fast to bolt the second you think things could be getting “serious,” despite the fact that there is no predictor for what could happen in the future, and everybody is different. I’m angry because this is a classic case of me wanting what I can’t have, chasing after the “challenge" of possibly swaying you. I’m angry because I should have seen this coming, because I did see this coming, actually, and didn’t jump out of the way fast enough. I’m angry because I hate endings, especially when I’m not the one initiating them. I’m angry because you’re leaving me high and dry, and how come I don’t get to ask for “closure" like you did when I tried to cut you off last month? I’m angry because “You know what- How dare you! How dare you reject me!“ I’m angry and my anger is completely irrational.   
Maybe I’m mostly angry at me, for not being able to stick to my guns the first time. But I’m also not going to be too hard on myself. The flesh is weak. We had a good time. You made me write something. 
Goodbye. I will miss getting fucked by you. 

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