Recap

It's ironic, isn't it, that I spent my summer in love and so happy yet the only record of it here is the angsty buildup and now the tearful conclusion.

Why didn't I write?

(Hell, I barely wrote in my journal. I spent every second of spare-time-to-myself TALKING to him.)

But, let's see.
I didn't want to jinx it.
I never wanted to make a big deal out of it.
I didn't want to sound sappy.

I wish I'd written. Except for the Big Issue That Broke Us Up, which was pretty easily avoided (until it wasn't anymore), we were so happy.

We'd worked out the kinks of long-distance.
We talked soooo much.
He knew everything about my present-day life and was beginning to learn about my past, the things I thought I'd never tell a suitor.
He was starting to pick up on when my attention span was shot and I needed a change of pace. I could tell when he needed to be Aspergery for a while and tell me every detail about something, and even though I'd tease him, I loved it.
He indulged my whims (roller skating! ice cream every day!) and treated me like a princess. I made him breakfast in bed and sent him letters, trying to take care of him, too.
We played board games and he didn't get pissy when I turned into an evil, competitive, trash-talking superbitch.
I squeezed his hand as we confronted one of his biggest fears (an actual place, not anything metaphorical, lol). He'd hold me tight when I was feeling anxious.
I dreamed about spending the holidays with him, spending time with him and my family, spending time with him and my friends. And HIS family, and HIS friends.

I dreamed about spending much more than that with him.

I just never stopped to make sure it was his dream, too.

"Maybe we can be friends someday. It'll just take time."
"'Friends' seems kinda lame after...this."