I've always told myself that no man is worth crying over for more than 24 hours. One day is it. Wallow, pity thineself and then, 24 hours later, move on. Certainly, for first or second dates gone badly, it's a good theory. There's no use getting upset for longer than the wretched bad date lasted in the first place, but along my many years of single-hood, I'll admit, there has been a time or two when 24 hours wasn't quite long enough to cure my heartache.
Without a doubt, I know that this is one of those times.
I made the call, I own the decision, and while I regret that it came to an impasse, I couldn't have kept going as things were.
But I liked this one. I loved this one.
Maybe after this summer's brief hiatus from each other, I should have been more prepared for this inevitable. I think it only made it worse. I thought...well, it doesn't matter now what I thought. We convince ourselves there's a reality to the things we hope most for, don't we?
It has been 24 hours. We're still sorting through the "I'll return your..." and the "What do I do about..." emails, still discovering things in my life, my home, that belong to him and vice versa. Things I don't want to let go of, but things that remind me too much.
Six months was a long time for me. Long enough together that I know 24 hours apart isn't going to even come close to healing this heart. 24 days might not even cut it.
This is going to take awhile.