Last night, we said our good-byes. 

(I know.  You’re thinking, dude, when is this going to stop. My GOD.  Oh, calm down.  I apologize, Internet; I promise I won’t drag this out any longer. Next week, my friend, next week I will have stories about other cute boys.  Be excited.) 

The first half of the conversation, he was the same angry, hateful person that he has been.  The one I don’t recognize.  The one that he turned into when he moved away.

It’s not as if I have never seen him angry before.  While together at college, when we would have fights, usually of the drunken nature and without substance, we wouldn’t give quarter. I always respected that he stood up for his views and I was free to stand up for mine. If I felt the need to passionately shout in the middle of the street, so help me God, I would and he would not be embarrassed or try to find an abandoned room to muffle the explosion.

The mornings always brought sobriety and apologies, but, odd for me, never grudges. I always told him that there was nothing I could do or say that could punish him more than he was punishing himself. And he agreed.

He lives inside his head a lot, which sounds certifiably crazy, but is honestly more sane than my constant stream of every-little-thought-in-my-little-head-and-oh-my-god-let-me-tell-you-this-other-thing-right-now-because-I-really-might-forget-and-it-is-really-important-I-promise.

He worries about his soul.  Or rather, the guy I loved used to.

This summer, I barely recognized him because, after everything, there were no repercussions. No internal struggles. He moved on to someone new instead of fixing us.  He gave up without a fight. Since I felt he didn’t go through his normal behavioral pattern, I held a grudge. A grudge I probably won’t ever forgive. But that didn’t stop me from trying to provoke a reaction or to start an argument just see if I could. I kept pushing him to see how close he would get to the edge before he would fight back passionately. A test to see if he was still in there and I was worth the reaction. I wanted that shouting match in the street where we wake up the next day and are back to normal. 

Maybe I went a little crazy these past few months.

The Kid From Boston is a law student. Have I never mentioned that before? He goes to Law School in one of the nation’s most superficial cities (no, not Boston, superficial is not an adjective for Boston) with the future vultures of America. His associates and their values are a far cry from those of his undergrad years in the Midwest.

Although he’s going to be extremely successful in his career, I worry about him as a lawyer.  That he will become one of those associates that measures life in six-minute segments and works 18-hr days. When I brought that up last night, he said, “I know. I worry about that too.”

Sometimes, he forgets to laugh; I was always the one who would remind him.

During the second half-hour of our conversation, the smile started appearing in his voice.  I finally started to hear the guy that I loved.  His voice softened and his wit, the humor that I always enjoyed, returned. 

He answered my questions and expressed regret over his mistakes, allowing me to voice my own.  He told me that he had wanted to marry me since freshmen year and that has never changed.  I asked why we grew apart and did he grow to be platonic or bored with me, and he said, “There’s no way I would ever be bored with you.  If we hadn’t done the long-distance thing, we would still be together.  And happy.  As for platonic?  I have never been able to keep my hands off of you, and you know that.”  He accepted 90-percent of the blame and apologized for fucking up everything.  He admitted that she doesn’t matter, not in the same way that I matter.

He called me the love of his life; I called him the love of mine.

He could be feeding me lies.  Or omitting that she is also the type of girl that highlights his face during Constitutional Law.  And my head, being so rational, recognizes that if I truly was the love of his life, he would have fought for me, he would have made an effort, and he wouldn’t have chose her.  Hell, he might even be interested in up-keeping a friendship with me.  My head gets that. 

But I think I’m going to let my heart win on this one.

I finally got my answers, from the man I loved, not from the stranger with the detached voice.  I learned that he loved me deeply and our relationship and our connection wasn’t a lie, it was real … it just broke.  And that completely sucks.

And I finally feel ok, I really have no desire to contact him to passive-aggressively provoke a reaction just to show that I still can.  My fight is over.  Granted, my heart hurts and I have bitterness and anger … But I finally have an ending.