He never chose me. There was always something or someone else that came first, was a better choice somehow. He chose to move in with another woman. He chose comfortable over scary, perks over obstacles. And he chooses her over and over again just by being there. Oh he’ll say it’s not her he chose, not her he’s choosing, that it’s only a temporary thing, but it isn’t. Years isn’t temporary. Years is a choice.
He can tell me he loves me every day for the rest of our lives but if he doesn’t choose me it’s meaningless. If he can’t make time for me and find a place for me in his life then he is still not choosing me. Can I blame him? Not really, yet absofuckinglutely I can. I chose him after all, why couldn’t he choose me?
What if it doesn’t work out, he asked. But what if it does? What if it does? We can’t make any guarantees about what will happen in the future. The only certainty aside from death is that you will fail at 100% of the things you don’t try. I’d rather jump off the bridge blind than sit back and watch everyone around me find the happiness I’m too afraid to go after. But that’s me, the woman with her heart on display who chooses to see the best rather than the worst in people.
It isn’t just him who didn’t choose me, there have been others. The main difference with them though is that I didn’t love them and I didn’t choose them either. It wasn’t always easy. I could have chosen to stay and marry the lying bastard cheater who made life very comfortable for me. That would have been settling in a way that I wasn’t willing to though, in a way that would have made me not love myself and resent him for it.
I simply want someone to choose me, to choose to love me and be with me, and I want him to be the same someone I choose.
Love me. Choose me. Be happy with me.