She said, "You're just so negative all the time. Life is meant to be enjoyed, but you can't do that, you stress too much, and about such stupid things. You know everything will work out eventually, and if it doesn't, oh well, deal with it then. But you make problems for yourself. Even the way you walk, the way you carry yourself, your shoulders all slumped, your head down. You don't...You don't seem happy."
I could interject, point out some things I've noticed about her. But I don't. It's not the time for that. So I nod. She's right, after all.
Is this attitude of mine what killed the relationship? And the one before, and the one before that? And all the ones snuffed out before they had a chance to breathe, and all the ones yet to come?
This one was different. At least, it was supposed to be. I loved her so much, her and her kid, and I tried so hard to make it work, to curb my anger and negativity. I wanted to care less about myself and more about us, the larger whole, and my new attitude was rewarding, exhilirating even, at least to me.
Maybe I should have told her that. Maybe I should have made it more clear what she meant to me. Maybe I didn't do enough, or maybe I tried too hard...
"I care about you," she said, "but I just don't feel about you the way that I should. I...I'm not sure I ever did."
...and maybe it didn't matter at all.
