I did all the right things; we met in public, a well-light area, I kept my voice even, I kept my speech riddled with facts.
I wanted to break up with you, my best friend for nearly seven years.
We were growing apart, we were spending more time fighting and debating and trying to sweep our literal problems under a figurative rug.
You made me less than what I could be; with you, I wasn’t the person who I wanted to become.
And you flared up, turning into a person I did not, could not, recognise.
‘No one else will put up with your shit like I do,’ you growled to me.
But I remained strong, secure in the fact that you were wrong. I remained calm and called you out on your lies.
A little more talking, a little less drinking of the coffee that waitress was set on pouring for me.
We haven’t spoken since last summer, I haven’t regretted saying ‘good-bye’ to you. I haven’t thought of calling you like I very nearly called Coffee Boy.
Sometimes I wonder if I did the right thing, instead of the best.
And on different days I have different answers.
But right now, I am content with my decision made months ago.
I looked you up on Facebook.
Fifty-one mutual friends that are more yours than mine.
And I asked to add you as a ‘friend’
I laughed, loudly and out of my head into the ‘real’ world.
I want you to see me,
and see how great my life is at this moment.
Because it is fucking amazing.