Those are the last words I uttered to my boyfriend, Luke, when breaking up with him. I stood outside of the teal gate that leads to my work office. Pouring rain; I held my umbrella tight with my right hand as I held my iPhone with my left. The wet drops, falling hard onto the pavement, representative of the tears I held in when I told him it was over.
“I can’t believe you’re breaking up with me over the phone.”
The first words he said after I dialed his number and told him I needed to end this relationship.
“I don’t see you anymore. Was I supposed to drag this on for a longer period of time? Was I supposed to wait till you made the time to see me?”
Of course not, he said. And with that I let it all out. My anger, my disappointment, my sorrow: all the emotions I felt due to letting him in…my home, my pepa™, my heart. Only to have another relationship fail and have to begin all over again.
“Do you regret us?” He asked, hoping for a “no” as men often do. They don’t ever want to feel responsible for our bitter regrets.
“I regret letting you into my family’s life. I’m the one that’s going to have to have the uncomfortable conversation with Mami and my step-dad about the why’s and how’s of our breakup,” I stated nastily. He listened intently. The only sound coming from his breathing. I could hear the guilt through the silence as he could hear the bitterness in my voice.
“I understand why you are ending this. I’m not meeting your needs. I know I haven’t been there,” he reasoned, unaware that logic and reason, though sensible, are the last things a woman wants to here when hurting. She wants to hear hope. She wants to hear love. She wants to hear him fight for her. But Luke did no such thing. Yes, he asked if there was any esperanza for us to reunite. I said no, not wanting to bend as if in the game of limbo.Yes, he said he wished things were different. But he didn’t fight. He didn’t plead. He just let me go, as if loosing me were easy.
It was just too easy.