It was over my head, I know nothing at all.

If I could choose my moment to die, that would have been it. The words were like a hammer to my heart. And until that precise second, it was like my ears had been plugged. And they popped once those words were uttered. Like I finally could hear what had been said over and over for hours. And maybe I could hear them, but I just refused to believe him. Until I was still standing there and he plainly asked me why. 

I rarely experience the events in my life as an actual person, but rather as a bystander. I was standing there and yet I was watching myself stand there. I could see my eyes silently begging a boy to let me in after he had already coldly shut me out. 

If my life were a movie, the moment he uttered that phrase, a bullet would have zoomed from behind and pierced me right there, dead on the spot. And my lifeless body would have crumpled onto the concrete and the camera would have panned out. And he would have walked inside and the door would have closed. And the credits would roll to some horribly sad song. 

But instead, in real life, I just watched myself turn and slowly walk out. And as each foot thudded on the pavement, I could vaguely hear the garage door close behind me. I kept my eyes straightforward, unwilling to let a single tear escape the bottom brim. And I could hear myself breathe in and out, so I knew I was alive. But mostly I could just hear my own heart breaking and the blood rushing to my head. 

I sat in my car for awhile. I couldn't even put the key in the ignition. When I looked down and realized I was still holding it in my hand and the door was half open and I was covered in goosebumps from the chill, I stuck it clumsily into the ignition. Secretly I hoped it wouldn't start. Because then the inevitable moment of me driving away and not looking back couldn't exist. But the engine roared to life. And I had no choice. I drove away. 

That's the funny thing about love. We look for it. Find it. And when it leaves, it leaves us with a gaping wound. And yet, we heal. And eventually look for it again. It's a merry-go-round we don't ever really stop. 

Then there's me. And maybe it's because I can't tell where I am on the ride. But, as of this moment, I am uninterested in healing. Because most of me is wondering if the splatter pattern I left on the garage floor will be the only reminder he has that I was there. Except I know it's invisible, and he'll never see it. 

And so maybe it wasn't love. Maybe it was only my fear of being forgotten. So maybe I carved my heart out myself.