I feel like the one thing that kept me and my first love from being any closer is that I didn't get her past. I didn't get what it meant to come from a broken home. I didn't know what to say when she told me some things she went through.
Sometimes I wonder if being so involved in this is driven not by my own story, but by guilt from that. By the slightest fucked up hope that maybe if she knows now we could be close in that way, we might get back together.
But she's changed. I know that.
I'm chasing after a memory.
Not a person.
That's why I've been able to let go as much as I would.
"Maybe we're bent and broken."
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