There are some men I wish we could read like the back of a book, but I tend to date the ones who rip out pages mid-chapter to confuse everything. When it comes to relationships, mine often end up being like the trifle that Rachel made in Friends. We’re left drawing question marks, but the reality is, are we really ever on completely different pages?
One book that left a scar seemed pretty straight forward, but then it arrived – That abrupt final page. I emotionally underlined the last few lines and carried them with me for a long time, none of it made sense. How could I have read it all so wrong? What did that final night mean? That forehead kiss? The hours spent sharing life stories? It was a heavy hearted feeling.
Some men have us believing we imagined the intimacy, that months tumbled into nothing, that we wanted more but they didn’t. It’s a quick way out, it’s easier for them to label us as too invested instead of admit the closeness and the way they shut themselves off from us. It’s as if we should take their 4ams, interlocking fingers and endless communication with a pinch of salt. Lack of courage tries to whittle the most strong, lovable women down to casual.
Months passed by, I read the last line, read it again, read it on new faces and read it on his whenever I saw him pop up anywhere. It was like a guilt, as if the collapse at the end was an explosion I should carry. And I don’t know how, and I don’t know when, but overtime, it eased, the feeling softened, the line faded and so did his face. It didn’t seem so heavy, because the thing is… we really were on different pages. Not during the development, but at the end. I’m not an abrupt ending, I’m an entire series, and as much as I cared about him, as much as I missed him, the question mark surrounding his unfinished book wasn’t my weight to carry.