In my head, I would beg Prof B to let me work at CIL from a distance. I would tell him my sob story of being stupid and egotistical enough to let the most amazing guy that I'd ever met walk away from my life. My sob story would be so moving, and I would make convincing copious promises of being fully dedicated to the job, that he would relent and say 'okay'.
In my head, I would then ring Wouter up, triumphant and excited, and tell him that I would move to Amsterdam. He would acquiesce, maybe he would even be equally excited; whatever it is, we would be on the same page again. We would finally be together again.
I thought it was what he wanted. A few days ago, he texted me to say that we needed to figure out what to do with my stuff that's still in his house, and added that it was holding him back. Of course, I should have known that a text message from him that was ostensibly about an administrative matter wasn't really about an administrative matter. He said, I can't try with you again. I don't want you here right now.
I said, Okay, if you are sure about it then let me know and I will move on.
He said, I'll think about it over the weekend.
I am relieved every time I check my phone and I don't hear from him. I thought about trying to convince him to try and make this work, tell him that I still love him and I made a huge mistake, tell him that I also miss what we had last summer; but I decided against it. I have no right to try and influence his decision when I was the one who left.
I don't know what to do with my emotions, and so I box them up and ignore them. I have become really good at it. Instead of trying to convince myself that I don't feel anything, I find that the reality is that I don't feel anything...
...save, that is, for a dull emptiness so substantial that it feels something like sadness.
I wanted to be sure - as sure as possible - that the image in my head was translatable to reality before I told him anything. I didn't want to get hopes up for nothing. So I waited, and waited - and waited until he couldn't take it anymore.
He is right - this is a constant struggle, and I am tired of it too. Maybe it is true that our plans simply don't coincide. Yet, I think of what we had - my girly excitement at the thought of seeing him, how he reduced me to a giggling schoolgirl, our instant connection that convinced me that he was it, our silly moments together - and it is true, too, that I can't, I really can't, bear to let go.
This is why I don't like to write much these days. I fucking hate crying about the same fucking thing. At the same time, I don't feel like writing about much else. I really hate this.