Last night I had a dream about a bottle of water she gave me. Someone else drank from it and I didn’t like that at all. I had to remind myself that how I felt about it didn’t matter because it was over on Sunday, after I acted like a prude even though I wanted nothing more than to sling a leg over both of hers and settle myself in her lap on her couch. Instead, I did that thing that I do where I do nothing at all and then swear on the drive home that I can feel regret entering my bloodstream and beginning to clog my veins.
On Wednesday she ended things over text and I haven’t been able to stop crying. I was cool about it though, and she said I’m so nice. It’s killing me not to talk to her. A few times a day I find myself wondering how pathetic it would be to beg her to let me buy her a beer or two so I can see her one more time; so I can explain why I was acting so strange and maybe she’ll change her mind. I didn’t get to show her my new old car or my favorite shoes, or even what my hair looks like down. And she asked to be friends—said she genuinely wanted that—but I want to help her make her bed in the mornings. I want to buy her fancy coffee, grind the beans myself, and make her cold brew in my cold brew press. I want to protect her from bees while she drags me around the city and points out all the places she used to live, and where she’d go out when she was in college.
I want her to want me, and I’ve never felt so selfish.
wasalreadythere 
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