It feels weird when I see you with another.

It feels weird that I could have been the one beside you.

It feels weird that after all these years, you’re still my last ex.

It feels weird that I cannot completely move on from what we had.

It feels weird that I know I want to be with someone else despite loving someone as much as I did love you.

It feels weird that you can choose another, and want her, she— an entity to me, someone not me, the very difference, the change, your preference, your decision.

It feels weird that you shut me out the last time I spoke with you, and made me feel so embarassed.

It feels weird that my pride could be hurt because of a past love’s rejection, when there was a point in time my love was all your desire.

It feels weird that after all the wooing I did, it could never equate to all your wooing, and all your suffering, and all your tears and your pain and your anger, when I was the one who pushed you away.

It feels weird that there’s this sort of subtle vengeance between us, over and over, like a broken record, except I think this time, you had the courage to smash the recorder and never to hear our broken tune again.

It feels weird that after all the preparation and the healing I let myself go through, I could still write these things and tell, and tell ‘I love you’.

I love you. It feels weird that I love you, even in the smallest possible way, I still love you, even in the biggest possible way, I still love you.

If feels weird most of all, that I can say all these things, and do nothing to you, except whisper to the universe that I once loved a young man, who loved me back, and although our timing was so terrible, we both loved—and so, will you take care of him? Take care of me? And that someday, even with separate lives, we could still be happy?

It all feels so very weird. So very, very weird.