Two days later I was off on another work trip. So I had many hours in my hotel room to sit and think. And write. Angrily, it seems:

“I wonder what she’s thinking. Is she thinking, ‘Yep, I fucked this one up’? Or is she saying how ridiculous I am and that I overreact and shit? Does she miss me? I’m not sure. All I know is that every time I see her walk into work with the black coat on that I bought her, I’m going to think ‘fuck you’ in my head. Fuck you for wasting my time. Fuck you for hiding who you really are. Fuck you for all the things I can’t take back. Fuck you, Leah. I hope you feel like shit. I hope it lingers for a while. I hope it’s going to be a motherfucker every time I walk down the hallway and you see me. I hope you see what you’re missing out on every time I walk by. I’m going to be walking, looking straight ahead, maybe a little strut in my step. I want to look like hot shit, and I hope she’s paying for it in her mind. Maybe I should look straight at her when I walk down the hall. See if she looks up and then looks away. Mini victories like that will be what drive me.”

My God I was super pissed. Mostly because when I said I loved her, I meant it, but now I felt like she only said it because she was drunk and is screwed up in the head. It was almost like she was saying it to overcompensate for something. Ugh. But I remember this rage. I remember how much I hated Leah.