I’ve always been bad at goodbyes. I was known for slipping out of parties unannounced, after pretending I was going to the bathroom. I’d text once I got home with an excuse for my rudeness. “Catch you next time!”
I hate the idea of closure, as much as I struggle to get it. I’m a stubborn child. Once I feel a decision is final, I want to reverse it immediately. Tell me not to touch the stove, my hands will be sizzling in seconds.
But deeper than my defiance is my fear. I’m petrified of change. It scares me that friends who enthusiastically celebrated your birthday one year aren’t even stored in your phone the next. That people fall out of love. That moments become memories.
And I guess it all comes down to my feelings about myself. Because it seems like I’m always waiting to confirm what I dread most: That I’m easy to walk away from. Unimportant enough to be forgotten. Insignificant. Unlovable. Easily erased.
It’s not that I want to wound you. I just want to know I left a scar.