It wasn't me. In his eyes, the love in them wasn't for me. Months later, I remembered what he'd said. And I saw the truth of his words. Maybe he's seen it too, if he remembers. Retrospection makes a master of irony out of us all. In his eyes, the love was for a woman from the past. He'd made up his mind to move forward. His eyes hadn't. And, then, looking into his eyes, I'd foolishly mistaken that love to be mine.
He was so determined, though. So adamant when he proclaimed his love. So strong-willed that, shielded as I had been by scepticism, I foolishly, foolishly started believing the words he said. He was too innocent to realize he didn't mean it. I was overwhelmed by possibilities and new ecstasy.
So, if you can, imagine the heartbreak when he left.
Time passed. He rediscovered the woman from his eyes. The woman who had a right to the love in them. Meanwhile, my anger melted into hurt. Eventually, time crumbled it into acceptance. I don't have anything against them. So, he wasn't in love with me, he wasn't mine.
Then why did he have to go to such efforts to convince me otherwise?
In retrospect, I see my role in this story, the story I thought was my own. At the risk of sounding too technical, I was a foil character. My role, my purpose was to make him realize a little bit more about his life. Maybe I'm wrong. But this is the only balm I have. Through me, he saw what he truly wanted. So where did that leave me?
An exit from someone else's story. An opportunity to search for my own.