When people talk about their biggest regrets, it’s usually met with something contrite like “I don’t believe in regrets” and “everything happens for a reason”, and sure, I’ll bite. I’ve told myself that many a time to get through all my wrongs. But no part of me believes all that much in ‘fate’ or ‘destiny’, or that there’s some grand plan for all of us. Maybe once upon a time I did, before somewhere along the way this hopeless romantic got struck down, knees scuffed up by cynicism. And, by some cruel twist of… not fate, but careless actions and falsely placed trust, my biggest regret happened. Or, rather, he walked away.
There are words lying around here in old, dusty posts vaguely talking about being unhappy, about giving up too soon — about how I didn’t and don’t deserve nice things. My most painful almost. The first sits primly in March 2014, not two months after I pushed away a boy I still to this day, three and a half years on, think I could have very easily fallen in love with. It’s a big regret of mine. Actually, it’s humungous. It’s this gigantic, hollow, echoey hole in my chest that still — still — hasn’t been filled in your wake. Three years is a long time to still care, longer than even the most stubborn, resilient teenage hearts. Because, oh boy, did I tumble in and out of (something that sure felt like) love hard when I was young and fearless, thinking my heartache would never end. But the broken hearts mended. Far quicker than the three years and six months I’ve accumulated of this.