Paris

You offered me Paris once. We were having some absurd conversation about taking over the world, and you promised to win me Paris.

“It’s romantic,” you said.

Without realizing it, I had let you believe a lot of things that weren’t true. And that was the moment that I realized that you wanted a lot more from me than I wanted from you.

When you asked me if I liked you, I said yes. Because I did like you, just not enough to make any sort of commitment. And I made that clear. Or I thought I did.

But maybe I didn’t.

I hurt you and I didn’t mean to and that hurt me.

I didn’t want Paris. I never did. Paris was someone else’s dream; someone else’s idea of a happy ending.

If you had known me half as well as you thought you did, you would have realized that.

You scared me. Did you know that? Every time that you asked me to pray for you before you went out to be with the people that I refused to meet, I was terrified.

Because you were never much for the God thing. You made that clear from the start.

But for some reason, my faith was important to you.

It wasn’t until Paris that I realized that I needed out. By that time, I had waded in too deep to sever ties without hurting you.

I don’t know if you’re ever going to read this, but I want you to know that I’m sorry that I couldn’t find a less painful way to leave than cutting you out all together.

I’m sorry that I couldn’t bring myself to hurt you when it was still easy.

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