I'm not very good at ignoring someone. I guess it's easier when they do it for you.

I want to say something.

I'll get this really big boost of confidence and I'll play it out in my head a million times over and over again. I'll plan out everything I have to say, everything she would (or could) say, and every reply I would have to it.

It's perfect and foolproof.

But then the more I think about it, the more I start to doubt myself, and the less motivated I become to actually go through with it. I obviously fucked this up and although she says she's forgiven me, it's hard to ignore the distant glare in her voice when she says "I'm okay." She's good at coming off as apathetic but only for so long. She's a fickle lover.

My biggest issue is that I've created this whole thing in my head where I think she's still in my life. And she quite possibly is in some context; she still makes an effort to say something 'subliminally' via certain social networks. Fucking birds. But that's the thing...she really isn't there. She was, but not anymore. She's become an idea, a fantasy. I'm in love with the idea but the truth is that the reality doesn't exist any longer.

We're alike. We're both stubborn and hardheaded* and 1st place bullshit liars. We're angry at each other and I'll have to admit she practices her craft much better than I do. I'm passive in other words. I'm like the Lionel Messi of this argument: quiet, humble, and composed. She's the Cristiano Ronaldo: explosive, dangerous at any given time, and full of flair.
And boy does she use flair.

I remember once saying "I'm convinced that I'm a romantic guy" only to have her repost it with a reply saying how much she loathed self-righteousness using me as the example. It was cheeky trying to unfasten my confidence but to no success. If you think about it, it's probably why I haven't stopped trying to win her back.

How dare I say such a thing? How dare I stir all those emotions she's buried deep into whatever that thing is inside her chest that pumps the black sludge through her veins? Yeah, of course, I'm a monster...except, I'm not a monster. I'm not the monster that she makes me out to be. But I have too become an idea to her. An idea she loves to hate. At least there's still love for something, right? Fuck me and my optimism.

Maybe, before she goes back forever, I'll show up on her doorstep with another letter, some breakfast, and some champagne (because who doesn't like mimosas at 9am?) and we'll be okay. I won't have to say a word and neither will she. We'll just sit there and stare at each other and have a shared giddy smile and enjoy the silence.

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*Not sure if that's a real word but it's supposed to be a bad pun. See 'thirsty' at urbandictionary.com