Then I either:
a) leave before I’m left
or
b) make a conscious effort to hold on.
I had dinner with a friend the other night. A friend I’ve romped around with in the sheets before. We ordered-in dinner, drank wine, and watched a movie. We never touched – sat on opposite sides of the couch – and avoided the flirtation of our usual interactions. I still didn’t tell Mr.U. Part of me has clung to the knowledge that my heart isn’t ready to be tied back to this place yet. I enjoy the devious fact that I’m not fully anyone’s if I can still have secret dinners.
I think, though, that I more enjoy having Mr.U. There’s something to be said about the calm he gives me – the giggle I don’t expect to burst out – the warm snuggles I’d generally avoid. The idea that I could lose him makes a sneaky dinner entirely not worth it.
I’m morbidly afraid of being left. I don’t know why – I’ve survived the most intense form of leaving. But its still a fear that I attempt to stifle with my toughness. Instead, though, right now: I’m deciding to make the conscious effort to hold on.
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