Letters Between Sundays

That night changed my life—or at least the part of me that controls my imagination.

We were both intoxicated, slurring our words together, making stupid decisions side by side. Twenty-seven days of playing house. Pretending this dream could last, just long enough to feel something that looked like love. Were we lonely, or was there a reason? Different views, different opinions, different futures. What did we really want?

Someone to argue with.
Someone to feel passion with.
Someone to feel the comfort of another person’s breath on their skin.

My past—the weight of it—dragged you down into the mud with me. How selfish was I to Velcro my heart to yours so quickly? We both knew this day would come. The day we’d have to return to real life, move on, and pretend the memories didn’t exist. The conversations. The disagreements. The sincere check-ins about our days.

I kept postponing that ending, convincing myself I could live inside a fairytale forever. Bowing my head to you. Letting you love me the only way you knew how.

Chemically, it was toxic. I brought the lighter; you handed me a bomb. We watched it explode in our hands. Both of our minds carried manipulation and control, but we didn’t stop. We stared at the bright side while the darkness stood right behind us.

When does caring turn into controlling?
When does yelling become sternness?
They sound different, but they share the same beat.

Twenty-seven days.
How do you start loving someone in such a short amount of time? Being in love is easy—it’s living with it that’s hard.

We were shocked by how instantly we clicked. Like colors on a rainbow—me red, you blue—never meant to blend, but too passionate to care. Loving opposite ends of the spectrum and calling it connection.

I should have listened when you said you weren’t putting your eggs in one basket. I thought I had a full dozen. Naive enough to believe I could make something whole out of it.

You caught me while I was spinning inside a tornado—a downward spiral I never meant to pull you into. I’m sorry you got tangled in the wind. I thought I was grounded. I wasn’t. You brought the debris.

Your house felt safe. A place where I could finally breathe—not realizing oxygen can still come with side effects. Making your coffee in the morning, unaware of the coffee grounds already lodged beneath my fingernails.

We skipped ten steps and never looked back. Letting my brain dictate my life instead of my heart. You saw straight through me and still tried to protect me from myself.

Your working hands held my face, your lips whispering security into my ears—not knowing I would want to keep it forever.

I thought I could change your heart. Change your mind. Change your beliefs. I thought we could meet in unison, mirroring each other, living in a flow state of being together while somehow still focusing on ourselves.

But did we love each other—or did we love the house, the dinners, the mornings, the laughter, the intimacy?

I taught you patience. You gave me the beginning of learning how to love myself the way you loved me. I will never regret that night of our stupid decisions. I regret playing house.

The twenty-seventh day came to an end.

One last kiss.
One last hug.
One last text message.
One last phone call.

Now we are left rebuilding the hearts we both helped shatter. Even in the wreckage, there’s some good in goodbyes—the kind that teaches you who you are, what love can be, and how to let go when holding on would only hurt.