He left 12 weeks ago. It was June; summer was just beginning. Now it's nearly fall; the leaves are changing, it's getting dark earlier and I can see my breath when I walk to the bus in the morning. It seems like June was so long ago, but like it was yesterday at the same time.
Before he walked out the door, he kissed me and said, "I'll talk to you soon." He kissed me again and said, "I'll see you in October." Now 12 weeks have passed and I haven't heard a peep. It hurts a little, yet I'm not surprised. The hurt would be much worse if I had been communicating with him. As much as one part of me would love to hear from him, the other part is immensely grateful to have had all this time to try to get over him without any interference.
But October is fast approaching. I have to wonder if he didn't follow through on the whole, "I'll talk to you soon," thing if he'll follow through on seeing me in October. It would be easier for me if he didn't. I know I won't be strong enough to say no if he calls. I won't even be able to lie and tell him I'm seeing someone and can only grab a coffee with him. Oh, on my better days I totally think I can do it. On days like today, though, when I woke up with puffy eyes and a headache because I lost it when I got home from the Snow Patrol show last night (you see, he was supposed to go with me), I know that there is no question that I'll give in to him. So, knowing my luck, he will call when he's home and I'll have to deal with a major setback.
I don't know when he'll be back in October. I could be seeing him in two weeks or six weeks. It might end up not being October when he comes back. Maybe he never even left, but this "I'm going to South Africa for this job for five years" was his version of the "Dearest Edna" letter.
I was hoping that I'd be seeing someone else by the time he returned for his October doctor visit. But that looks like it won't be happening. I haven't even been able to bring myself to go on more than a handful of dates.
The only remotely Potentially Promising thing actually started before he left and fizzled out not long after he was gone. Perhaps if I had gotten that text message before I'd finally crawled into bed because I got sick of waiting for the Potentially Promising One to sober up enough to come over that Friday night after the Pride block party, things would have been different. But that didn't happen. I went to bed at a semi-decent hour and was up and about when he called to see if he could stop by and see me before his flight left very early the next morning. And the Potentially Promising One flaked out on me twice more and that was the end of that.
So I wait for the skies to clear and my hormones to go back to normal. I'll realize that I'm pretty happy, all things considered. I'll think about him less. I'll go weeks without crying again. I'll focus on the Twins playoff drive, the upcoming beer festival, my cousin's wedding and all the other fun things I have going on in October. And I'll be okay.