Dino Friend Casey Kovarick

Increments of Heartbreak

Vivian Dong

I told you to stay and you told me you had to go. I begged and pleaded while you packed your things. but you said we weren’t good for each other. You said we’d kill each other in the end. But when you left it almost killed me.

I was a bridesmaid at your wedding. I watched you cry as she walked down the aisle. I clapped for you when you kissed her with all the love in your body. That love used to be for me. I toasted champagne while I wished forever upon you. Nothing had ever tasted so bitter.

I was at your housewarming party. It was small, just the group from college. I like your house; did I mention that? You’re right, the lawn is nice. And the park down the street will be a great place to teach your kids how to ride a bike. Sorry, I know I was distant, but I kept looking around, feeling the holes in my chest, thinking this could have been us.

I held your daughter the day she was born. I watched as you cried when you saw her for the first time. I cried too. I hugged you guys, told you how happy I was for the both of you. I really, really was. I held her in my arms, her tiny fingers curled around my thumb, and I kept thinking how strange it felt to be impossibly happy and sad at the same time. Your daughter calls me Aunt. and not so long ago, that would have killed me. A million years ago I told you to stay, and you told me you had to go. Because you completed the parts of me I couldn’t. You fixed me up so I wouldn’t have to.

But the nice thing about time is that it heals most wounds. and the ones it didn’t, I healed myself. The way I loved you tore me into pieces. It forced me to look in the mirror and figure out where to stitch. You have each other and I have me. Isn’t that wonderful?