"Here, use this", he said, handing over his favorite sweatshirt so I could use it to wipe away my tears. "No I can't, I don't want to make it all gross" I replied, not being able to catch my breath. "No really, it's fine. I probably won't even remember that this happened, go ahead and use it."
I probably won't even remember that this happened.
I've always prided myself on being able to remember every little detail about the past. Being able to call someone out for being wrong because of my memory, and being able to buy someone a killer present because of that one time they told me about something they liked. I remember birthdays and ex-boyfriend anniversaries and countless movie quotes that no one even really picks up on when I mention. But, I don't pride myself on it anymore.
Sometimes it isn't fair.
In fact, sometimes I hate it. I wish I could forget, the way you've been able to do since the beginning. I hate my detailed memory, for bringing me all of the times you ditched me for your friends instead of balancing your time.
I hate my detailed memory, for its inappropriate ways of sharing with me the first time I slept at your new apartment, and the last.
I hate my detailed memory, the way it reminds me of the darkest freckle on your face, and also the one that was my favorite.
I hate my detailed memory, with its terribly accurate depiction of your indifference to me always asking you to meet my friends, of which you never did.
I hate my detailed memory, for proving to me through countless memories that I should have ended things before they got worse.
I hate my detailed memory, when it laughs about how you broke my heart two times and I fell for it, twice.
The photographic images twisting around in my evening thoughts of you tell me about the girl you studied with at the library, and about how all of the other guys in your group thought you two were "banging". It crosses my mind every year when you put together a very, very, last minute and unthoughtful birthday gift for me. I remember when you stopped writing poems in the journal I lent you because you "ran out of things to say". All of the times I asked if we could talk on the phone, and all of the times you never did. The time you called a girl cute right in front of me. The two days you spent sending me one word messages. The one time in a two year relationship that you bought me flowers...because you felt obligated to do so. It was a toxic relationship at best, and I hate that I remember every detail of it.
My detailed memory haunts me, as it makes sure to let me know that you were never one to remember anything, while I sit here, painfully remembering it all.