I understood from the beginning that staying together would be illogical. We lived thousands of miles from each other: Boston and London, USA and UK. If we were to visit each other once every six months it would have been a feat. And we'd have to spend a good thousand bucks to do it. The time difference would mean we couldn't talk at normal times of day. He'd be at work all of my morning. I'd be at class and at work all of his night. Not to mention the fact that the long distance would be indefinite. Was I ready to move to London? Not so much. Was he willing to move to America? Not one bit. While we both discussed the prospect of moving to the other's home, it was never a genuine possibility. What about the risk? What if we broke up? What if we ended up resenting the other for forcing us to move to be with them?
Again, I'm not a moron. I knew the chances of all this working out somehow were slim to none. But finding out they were just plain none was horrible. At the moment of realization I cried uncontrollably, locked myself in the bathroom, couldn't look at his face. And we still had a week to go. So I pushed it out of my mind and reserved myself to make the most of what little time we had left. And I did a good job! We had fun, right up until our last night. That's when I combusted. It was his birthday; of course it was his birthday. And I found myself running around finding this and that to do for him- all the while spending very little time actually with him. Finally, he stopped me. It was a horrible moment when I realized that I'd been avoiding him. I knew if I really stopped, looked at him, anything, I'd break down. And I did. I spent the rest of the night crying. I find myself now regretting those couple of hours, really maybe three tops, where I subconsciously avoided him. Avoided feeling anything at all.
From that moment when I finally broke down, to the following night when I arrived back in my home country: that was the worst day of my life. I can say it with complete confidence. I've never been in that much pain, emotional or physical (though really it was both), over anything. The goodbye was drawn-out, excruciatingly so. I didn't want to say it but the longer he was in my line of sight, the longer I cried, hyperventilated really, with no foreseeable stop. We told each other that I would get into the security line and he would walk away, and we wouldn't look bad. We both looked. Of course we did. We loved each other. Still do. And for however much I was crying before, I managed to cry harder- all through the 45-minutes of security line. I got a lot of strange looks that day. Fortunately, I didn't give a fuck. I was too miserable.
I had 7 and a half hours of plane ride ahead of me, before my connection in Montreal. I don't remember what I watched. I put on one movie after another, but absorbed nothing. I just sat there and cried. It wasn't really continuous. That's just impossible. But I sat, and thought, and wallowed, and every few minutes would find tears streaming down my face. My seat-mate just loved me. I managed though, at the very least, to get myself to the bathroom in anticipation of the handful of times I began to hyperventilate and flat out bawl once more.
And when I got to Montreal, oh when I got to Montreal. They had me jump through 8 lines of security to get to my connecting flight. But the worst part was the realization within a few minutes of de-boarding that neither my international nor my American phone worked in fucking Canada. I needed to talk to him- now. Not after security. Not once I was back in the States. Right. Fucking. Now. This, in short, is how I managed to hysterically cry in two airports in one day. Arriving at La Guardia wasn't happy for me. I didn't want anything but to be back in London, back home.
I wish I had something to be angry about, other than purely the circumstances. To be honest, he never misled me. He took his good time telling me he loved me. Before the summer, he told me that he wasn't ready to try a long distance relationship, that any time I spent with him for the next few months wouldn't change that. I accepted this, agreed with him even. But I suppose all the while I was secretly convincing myself that he'd change his mind. I mean, of course I was. I loved- and still love- him and wasn't willing to just give up. That's why our reiteration of this conversation, a week before D-Day, hurt so badly. I was sure things had changed. They had for me. But apparently not enough.
I wish I could be angry at him for that. For being too scared to try. For not wanting to put real time into the relationship. For not thinking it's worth the pain of being apart to some day being together. I wish I could be angry about it, but really I'm just sad. I know he cared about me. I saw it that week before D-Day, when he thought I might leave him early and he broke down. But still, I loved him more than he loved me. That, or I was more courageous than he was. More willing to take the pain. I suppose it could have been both, or neither. According to him I should never doubt how much he loves me. I try not to. I really do.
The thing is, he and I just worked. I can't say we were perfect, no real couple is. But we made each other so happy. Our senses of humor meshed, our personalities were equal and opposite in many ways. We complemented each other so completely.We would laugh at all the same things, listen to the same music, watch the same tv shows and movies. I provided all the optimism his pessimism required. He grounded me. He made me feel taken care of, like I could be myself with him. Even if "myself" was much more childlike and girlish than I ever cared to let on to friends or family. I didn't have to put up a front or lie to him. We didn't fight. Once in a while we would piss each other off, but we'd discuss it close to immediately each and every time. I would tell him what I needed and he would provide it. He really, more than anything, wanted to make me happy. It was amazing to be with someone whose own personal happiness was so contingent on whether I was happy too.
Sometimes I don't think there will be a point where I'm over this. I think I'll just continue to be sad indefinitely. Most days I fantasize about him showing up at my brother's in laws or at my old high school teachers or at my apartment in Boston. In these fantasies he proclaims his love for me and tells me he can't live without me. He tells me he'll go wherever I go. Sometimes he even proposes. Maybe eventually my fantasies will become a reality?
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