Pathetic

If there were a prize for holding on to something the longest, I would win. Every once in a while I remember why it is that after more than a year I am still not over him. It's intricate. He came at a time when I was alone. Literally alone, in a foreign country dealing with the ghosts of my childhood and coming to terms with it. He came at a dark place when the humor and lightheartedness of our conversations was a saving grace for me. The romantic buried deep deep down inside is also to blame. Traveling through foreign lands together. The anticipation, sights, sounds, moments and most of all, hopes. Those long bus rides through Bolivian countrysides, the music, the conversations. None of these really forgotten because lastly, it's become a habit. Holding on has become a habit. Even though he's clearly moved on, I have clearly not. I keep mulling over memories as my way to keep something that has long ago died, alive. I know that this is doing more harm than good. I know that. But it's better than making the idiotic mistake many girls make by staying in the inadequate relationship. I was the smart one. I made the right decision by breaking it off. I'm supposed to be the one who has moved on dammit and he's supposed to be the one heartbroken! But no, it doesn't work that way apparently. So for now, at least in this moment, I will allow myself to feel, to remember, to cry, but just a little. Because any more would just be pathetic.