Yesterday I went over to my " sister's" house. I put 'sister' in quotation marks because, well she's not biologically, or even legally my sister. I just consider her a sister. Whether or not she still considers me a sister after all that's happened. I don't know, but I sure hope so.

As I rounded the corner, I saw his car there. Granted, he can't drive it, and I knew that at some point it would end up at their house....but I just wasn't expecting to see it there, with the hood up. I half expected to see him come out to the raised hood and continue working on the car. Logic then grabbed a hold of me. It was stupid to think that he was here. Sister would have told me if he was going to be there. Still, I don't know if it was hope or want, I expected him to be there working on his car.

Instead it was "Brother";( Strange but this is what I used to call him) Sister's husband. He was working on the car. He was trying to get it running so that he could sell it. My heart sank. Selling the car? Selling HIS car? It made sense. It was more than logical, it was the only thing left to do. I stayed at their house for about an hour. It was good to see their son. I'd taken advantage of the fact that I could see them and him when I pleased when I lived right down the street from them. He was so big now. Bigger than when I had remembered seeing him last. It was almost a month ago. Hard to believe. It was even better to see them. They didn't treat me as if anything had gone wrong. As if I was still a part of the family. I like that. Maybe more than I should have, but I still felt comfortable around them. I missed them. I missed him.

As I stood outside watching their son play with the neighbor kids, it slowly started swelling up inside me. I tried to choke back the tears but they were coming, whether I tried to choke them back or not. There was no stopping them. I saw the trampoline; the place where we looked up at the stars when it was new and exciting. The place where we talked, and had our first meaningful conversation. It was all hitting me harder than I would have expected it to hit. I thought it was better, I thought I was done, or at least near the point, with feeling this way. I was almost sure I had gotten over the rest of everything. But my heart begged to differ. I contemplated whether or not I should stay. Was I wearing out my welcome? I couldn't cry in front of them. I couldn't let them know I still hurt. Not now. Not ever. I was supposed to be done being....this...done feeling this.

I saw our old house, newly occupied with a happy couple from out of state. The ripping sensation in my chest became stronger, more prominent. I was not going to cry. Not here, not today. I was doing so well. I began to become angry with myself; frustrated that I'd let those memories come flooding back in. Angry that I'd done nothing to stop them. I'd let them flood in. I'd wanted them to flood in. I don't know why. I guess not thinking about him made it easier not to feel. But I did feel. I wanted him there. I wanted to tell him how he'd hurt me. I wanted to ask him how it was so easy for him to move on. How he justified the way he'd acted, what he'd done. But I knew that if I'd seen him, things would be worse. I wouldn't have been able to hold them back for this long, the tears threatening to tell my secret. I wouldn't have been able to even speak to him, frozen in disbelief. But I didn't have to worry about that. He was long gone. No way he was coming here. Not today. I was here. I was the one spending time with his family. Spending time with my family. I knew before that they would be hard to let go, even while I was still with him. Now they were even harder to let go, because it was so easy to lose them. If I stopped coming around, stopped making contact...I'd lose them more quickly than I lost him. The thought sickened me and made the already threatening tears push harder to exit from my body.

Brother came around the side of the house and asked me to move my car so that he could take his four-wheeler to the other car. Finally, I had a chance to leave and let all of this emotion out. I didn't want to leave. I would have loved to have stayed there all night, but I needed to leave. I needed to let this emotion out of me. I felt guilty for leaving. I wanted so much to sit and just be there. Spend time. I loved being over there when I lived down the street. I loved being there now. I said my goodbyes, that I'd hoped to see them soon. And I drove away.

I was so angry with myself for letting this happen; for allowing myself to feel this pain again. The one thing that made it easier was the the pain wasn't as severe as it was in the first two weeks. It still hurt, but it was easier to get out of. It felt good to cry. I hadn't cried in so long. Not over him. But I needed it. My body craved release of all of these feelings I kept, balled up, inside. It was only after I'd let it all out on the way home that I felt better. I felt more in control.

Seeing things the remind me of him still cause that familiar pain I feel in my chest. They cause me to think about only the good times. I know there were bad times. I know I had no way of knowing that things would happen the way they did when we first got together. I'd never loved another person that much. Not in that way, at least. I'd poured my heart and soul into it. I'd given almost everything I had to make it work. In the end, I was weary. I still wanted it to work. I still wanted him. I would have fought for him. I tried to. But my weariness was more present than I had thought. So I let him go. He wanted freedom, he wanted out. He wanted.....someone, just, .............................not me. That was the part that killed me.

Thinking about him made me angry, both at myself and at him. Why didn't he just own up to his feelings? Why didn't he want to try? Why wasn't he honest? Why, after all that time, after exactly one month shy of having been together for a year, did lies-no, not lies, things he'd failed to tell me-start coming at me. Things that I have no reason NOT to believe. It was his fault that we didn't work; that my efforts had failed. He was the one that forced me to be his backup plan. I was unaware of it all along. He didn't love me. After all, I was the Nag. I'd only tried to get him to where I knew he could be. Sometimes I was very blunt about it, and that hurt his feelings. But he was so good to me in the beginning. He made me feel like we belonged together. But, after thinking about it, I've come to this conclusion; he was just really good at being charming. At taking, and never giving. After a while, his charming act failed to reach the levels it once had. I was slowly seeing through him. Maybe that's why. Maybe that's why he skipped town and found someone else. Maybe that's why he didn't try to improve in the slightest when I'd given him that ultimatum. If he wanted to be with me, I would have given him the benefit of the doubt. I would have let him come along if I'd seen that he was serious about wanting to be with me, that he wanted to meet his potential. But I was wrong. I obviously wasn't good enough for him. I couldn't offer him anything anymore. Did I love him? Yes. As a matter of fact, I still do. But, I don't miss him as much as I miss the person he used to be; the person I loved with every fiber of my being. But I had to let it all go. I had to let him go.

I guess feeling something is good. Being able to let it all go in the end, was better. That really helped me to get over him. And I am. I'm over wanting him back. I don't. I want him to be happy. And I'm okay with the fact that he won't be happy with me now. I'm more mature about it. I've learned something from it, and now I can move on. As he should. I'm young. I can live my life. I have it together. I'm ready.