What ifs are the worst.

Before any of this happened, before we started talking again, before we started dating, before it all, I always wondered if any of it ever would happen. He was always my what if. What if we had actually dated in high school instead of just skirting around it? What if we hadn’t done anything until we were a little older, a little more mature? What if we had found a way to make it work? What if we tried again now?

When this first started, I thought that no matter what happened, at least I would finally know, one way or the other, whether we could work or not. At least I could stop wondering. At least he would stop being a what if.

But now that things have ended, I am left with a whole pile of new what ifs. What if I hadn’t pushed the issue when I did? I could have lived in blissful ignorance for a while more, and we might still be together. We still might not have had a title, but at least we could have still been happy while it lasted. What if I had given him an answer the first time he asked what we were? What if we lived in the same town? What if he was ready? What if, for once, we were both ready at the same time? What if he starts talking to me again when he is ready? What if he’s never ready? What I never get over him? What if we never get another chance? What if we do? What if he’s always a what if?

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