I remember

I remember that once upon a time, I used to long for the mere sight of you. For your touch, or the scent of your clean, crisp cologne. It would hurt to think that we were so far away from each other. I even felt actual physical pain in my arms from your absence, for their emptiness of you. I used to feel so safe in your arms, in the nook formed from your chest to your shoulder. That was my home, my shelter, the only place I felt protected from reality.

I remember admiring the easiness in which you seemed to glide across a room, without a care in the world. How you would not pay attention to seemingly unimportant things, like melted ice-cream dripping on your brand new car because we were laughing so hard at something. Or how you did not care about my stained family history, the one I used to be so ashamed of until I met you.

Most of all, I remember being so happy, that I actually cried on the plane when I left you to fly back home.

I remember telling my grandmother that you thought that I was perfect, and that I was going to do whatever was needed for you to keep thinking that always. Maybe this was my worst mistake: I am most certainly anything but perfect, and I am sorry I could not keep the act up for you too long.

But I remember you. I remember us. And even though I miss you and I miss us, I am also aware of how tiring it was to pretend being perfect all the time. I know that now. And I am not quite sure what to do with that.