you called me and i let it go to voicemail.

i don't know how this story goes nor how it ends, but i know how it started: a crush in freshman year smoothed into casual friendship.

then, four years later: a bad decision in our near-empty apartment, green and gray bubbles through christmas and new year's, staying up until 6 a.m. with laughter in my throat, becoming familiar with the taste of my name in your mouth. holding your emotions in my hands, folding them again and again so i could press them close to my heart, the same heart that crumbled when you told me you were still in love with your ex. the same heart that turned to dust when our housemate told me you two got back together. if i write about it with pretty words, it makes me feel like i still have control over something. but i had control all along — i knew in my bones what emotional and physical intimacy, intertwined, would do to me. i told myself that i had control of my heart before it ran away and i gave it permission to because the feelings made the sex so much better.

i ignored all the red lights. see, this is what not having a driver's license does to you — you pretend the rules of the road don't exist. you see every light as green and you charge forward anyway.

you want to catch up. you want to tell me that you are back together with her. you want to share something of your life with me that i cannot hold and i ache with apologies.

i leave your text on read. i'll text you soon, but not today. today, i am not ready. today, i am grieving what could've been.

-corleone