Pink Glasses.

I miss you.

Correction: I miss the idea of you.

A gaze that heated my skin and chilled me to the bone.

Tongue-tied, weak in the knees, head over heels— pick an idiom and it probably applied.

After all, that’s falling in love, right?

Or maybe I just miss the butterflies.

A chaotic cocktail of chemicals and hormones to remind me I’m alive.

I miss that…

I think.

I miss believing there was a chance—before I found out there wasn’t.

I miss writing things like,

“If that wasn’t love, then I don’t know what was; if infatuation, then damn was I wrong…and my heart is a liar and my gut is a fraud. God who can I trust, ‘cause I thought You said ‘he’s the one’?”

Cringy, I know.

But real.

At least it was.

I miss the blissful ignorance of my own imagination.

the pleasantly pink tint of my glasses.

I think deep down I knew it would all go to pits.

But, my heart still clung recklessly to the hope— er, wish, that maybe, just maybe I’d be the girl you’d be crazy about just so that I’d feel less crazy.

But here I am— not really missing you, but missing who I thought you were, and who I was, and who I thought we could have been together.

As it turns out, you’re just you, and I’m better than that version of me, and we’re both better off this way.

I think.