Through repetition, I become a master of bad habits. Ignore the omissions, time lost to promises broken or partially fulfilled. Tell myself that love is fickle – between my dedication and passion, I maintain, you will come to find a home in me. Patience is a virtue, I say to an empty room, yearning to see the shape of your lips on a Friday night.

You’re slow, you say. I assume I know what that means: slow to fall in love is something I can accept. There’s no significance in how little I know of you outside of us, you tell me. You’re just a private person, you respond, when I ask to put a picture of us in plain view. It’s not that you’re ashamed of me, no. But I still don’t know your friends, your parents. I cannot come to your apartment. Two seasons later, and I wonder if I’m your girlfriend outside the walls of my bedroom.

I lie next to you after waiting days to hear the sound of your voice, my stomach full of acid. I am not happy, I realize. I feel like my lungs will collapse. I am just so tired of bad habits, of waiting in empty rooms, of day dreaming that you will see me more than five times a month. My gut feeling, the one I’ve denied for so long, tells me that I’m less than a fraction of your life – that you’re a cheater and I’m a choice you refuse to make.

You’re not slow to fall in love. You’re slow to utter honest words, to let go of what keeps you warm. And what lies you tell her, or them, I can’t guess. But I will remember you always by those you told me. I don’t want you to be sad.

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