I think of him sometimes. Not often; but from time to time, I see something that reminds me of him, of a certain memory in our past, of a certain way he would react to things, or of how he is doing. But the terrible thing is how I don’t think of him enough. In fact, he is absent from my mind and from my daily concerns most of the time. I go on with my new life, my new love and my new work without him. And that makes me feel a sense of guilt whenever I do think of him, because of the fact that we have been together for seven years and that we have shared so much together. Even if things had turned sour for the last few years or that we had become trapped in our own selfishness and inertia, we share family, common friends, common habits, pets and lived under the same roof. It scares me almost that he seems like such a distant part of my past and is stashed into an abandoned closet in my mind.

The night before I was to leave for San Francisco on my exciting roadtrip, we had one of those tiring “discussions” that we’ve been having for the last couple of years. But what was different about that discussion was that I knew it was going to be the final one — that there wasn’t going to be anymore. Maybe he knew too, but would rather pretend that things were alright than to face the truth and tried to come to terms with it. Something had broken in me just several months before — right about the time I started this blog, maybe shortly after. We had been having a lot of problems for a long time… perhaps the biggest problem is that we didn’t know why we were with each other. He was constantly unhappy with the way I did things and I was always nervous that I might be doing something wrong. And this resulted in a relationship that was at best stagnant and at its worst, stifling.