I cried for months, literally. Unable to think about anything other than facing living with a person I still had such strong feelings for. Made that much harder by knowing that he didn't feel the same. Knowing that I had lost one of my best friends, not only my boyfriend.
I moved out of 'The Bungabow' where so many memories belonged, back home, to my safe place. The place where he had no marker. Where he had never been. The place that was truly mine.
I logged on Facebook and felt my safe place slowly fade away. He had been there, visiting another friend. They had been to the shopping centre just streets away from my house, they had been to my friends work, got drunk, hung out. He now had his mark there too.
I went to Brighton to visit my best friend, the one who has been there for me quite possibly more than anyone else I know, and he had been there too. He had his memories there and I had mine. Separate of course, but all the same, they were there.
So I went to London, did a show. Met some amazing funny caring beautiful people and still all I could think and worry and cry about is how on earth I was going to cope, spending my last year of uni living with the-no-longer-boy.
Then I got a text that quite literally has changed everything.
The boy is no longer moving in, he got asked to live with some friends he hasn't had as much time seeing over the second year, so he thought he'd take this last opportunity to rebuild those friendships, spend the final year with them.
Some of my other house mates were livid, some took the news quite well. As for me, I cried. It was selfish, but I was angry. Angry that I had wasted three months of my summer crying over a problem that no longer existed. Angry that I had wasted all that happy time, not being happy. I was angry at myself for not being concerned about how this could affect our own contracts come September. I was angry at him for not rising to my want of an argument when I text him about it. I was angry when I finally read the Facebook message that told his nine friends he wasn't going to live in the epic house that is 61. And then I was angry at my friend who told me to grow and pair and get over it.
But I did get over it. I sat down and I thought about it. I talked to my friends in London about it, people who had no idea who this boy was or why I had found him so special. People who would look in, truly, completely, honestly, from the outside.
It was during these talks that I realised that I was over it. All of it. The breakup, the pain, the crying, the worrying, the friendships gained and lost. That I had maybe been over it a longer than I thought I had.
I had spent so much time worrying about what might be that I had missed out on three months of what was.
So tomorrow marks the day that I move in to the house that will see me through my final year of uni. The house which already has had its own little emotional roller coaster. The house which I cannot wait to move in to, to explore, to make new memories in. And most importantly, to laugh in.
I told my friend last night that as happy as I finally am, I do wonder what I am supposed to do with all this spare time on my hands. For the first time in about two years my mind isn't occupied worrying about some boy, some new heartache, some new way in which I've been wronged. And as lovely and incredible as it is, I do often wonder what I used to think about and talk about before the screw ups to the human race made an appearance in my life.
I guess I'm about to find out <3
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