And you know what, fuck him. Fuck him for leaving. Fuck him for fucking with my mind. Fuck him for not knowing what he wants. Fuck him for dragging me into it. Fuck him for being such a fantastic kisser. Fuck him for ruining my favourite band. Fuck him for barely saying a word to me before I left. Fuck him for not waving. Fuck him for getting my hopes up. Fuck him for making my hopes useless. Fuck him for taking off with my fucking happiness.
Fuck me. Fuck me for always getting into situations like these. Fuck me for caring. Fuck me for not knowing the words that would have made him stay. Fuck me for not knowing what I want. Fuck me for wavering. Fuck me for not kissing him back the right way. Fuck me for getting my hopes up. Fuck me for not having more realistic hopes. Fuck me for making him the reason for my happiness.
If I hadn’t stayed those two extra minutes in the bathroom, staring at the mirror, as if my face would suddenly tell me the answers my mind didn’t know. If I’d been able to push through the crowd of thoughts in my mind instead of being stuck inside its haphazard body-maze. If I’d seen him before I got to the door. If I’d said something when I saw him coming. If I’d managed any of these ifs – would I have been able to avoid the inevitable fuck up, the full force fuck off? My pride shut me up, my hurt shut me down, and together they ganged up on my hope and let him get away.