I know I've written to you countless times since we broke up, but I've never said this before.
I am no longer in love with you.
I have spent the better part of my life holding onto you and the colossally beautiful ways in which we chose to destroy each other.
But no more.
The memories we hold of each other will always be sacred. From the first kiss to the last, each moment will forever be engraved under my skin, but your touch can no longer haunt me. I refuse to be a graveyard for the undead.
I have spent too many inebriated nights having imaginary conversations with you. I have spent too much time wondering if we were meant to be. I know now that ours was a limited infinity. We broke up three years ago and haven't spoken for 628 days now, (not that I am counting), and I have failed to open myself to anyone else in that time.
I see you peering at me from behind the faces of the Tinder profiles I swipe, laughing at their cheesy bios. I will not let you ruin it for me anymore.
Some people come very close to sitting just-right with our puzzle pieces, but don't necessarily sit perfectly. You and I kept chipping away at ourselves, trying to fit into a puzzle that wasn't ours, to begin with, till we didn’t recognise each other anymore.
Don't get me wrong. I will still think of you all the time. But I know now that even though you were my first love—you were just that, my ‘first’ love.
For the longest time, I thought I was still in love with you, only to realise that I was just in love with the memories. And that I always will be.
By Nimisha Jain
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