We haven't spoken since Monday. Rather, we haven't texted since Monday, and even then it was a brief exchange. It's been three weeks since I last heard your voice. I never imagined we would be able to go for this long, but I was wrong. I guess that was one of many things I was wrong about, but the biggest thing I was wrong about was you, or us.

I could never quite bring myself to leave. No matter how many break-up speeches I prepared in my head, and no matter how many doubts and uncertainties I concocted, the only words I could manage to choke up were, "I forgive you. I love you." I would sigh a sigh of relief with traces of disappointment because once again you'd pushed me over and I let you win. The 180 miles between us only amplified that sigh.

With every sigh, I questioned: Why is it so hard for you to love me?

One hundred and eighty miles between us sucked. You would express your hate for the distance between us. You wished we were together, and you couldn't wait for the day we would wake up next to one another. Still, on one side I was holding it together, but on the other, you were slowly tearing apart the seams I'd stitched together so lovingly. One hundred and eighty miles was hard on me, but why was it so much more taxing on you?

I remember crying on the phone when the disconnect became more apparent than I had ever realized it could become. My lungs caved in and it felt like the entire population was sitting on my chest. We'll be okay. At least that's what I kept telling myself. We'll be okay. It was supposed to make me feel better telling myself that we would be okay.

I don't think you ever meant to hurt me intentionally, or that you ever meant to be malicious. Your actions were always clothed in ambiguity and uncertainty. I experienced a great amount of grief for a relationship I once cherished. I felt emptiness and exhaust the next time I laid in bed next to you, but still somehow distant. I never saw it coming to this. If someone told me that we would end up this estranged, I would have never believed it. In the beginning, if someone told me I would never learn to trust you again, I would have plugged my ears because everyone makes mistakes. You said it was just a mistake, and I believed it. How else could I convince myself that I could go on for so long being full of resentment and leeriness, but still so in love? I was still so in love, but maybe not completely.

It's Wednesday, and it's been two days since your last text. I stand at the kitchen counter making coffee you'll never drink. I'm looking at a chair you'll never sit in because the days that I've dreamed of just aren't showing up. I still think of waking up next to you. I still dream of a day I can one day trust you. I want to look into your eyes and find all of the pieces that were missing for so long. But that day isn't coming, and that's the one thing I have yet to accept.