So it’s not you.
You’re not the one I’m going to curl up with under the blankets on the slow Sunday mornings.
You’re not the one that will dance around that oh-so messy apartment in some part of I-still-don’t-know-where-in-the-world with me, dressed in our work clothes.
You won’t bicker with me as we decide on how much sugar is just right for the spicy masala chai that we plan on drinking as we watch the rain.
You will never be the person who gets along with my best friend almost as much as I do (funny, because you are the one whose glasses she wants to punch off at the moment).
You won’t be the one to stay, even when I push against my walls, trying not to let them collapse, trying not to let you in.
You just won’t be the one I bring home to the dyfunctional mess I call a family.
So, for now, I’ll just repeat the words I always tell everyone, the words that have been echoed so much that I forgot whether they were true or not, the words that you took for face value, not bothering to check if they were true or not.