Unrequited

We lived in the basement at a mission in Baltimore.

We lived in a small apartment near the college where I taught in Ohio.

We practically shared her tiny dorm room.

We were together. Sometimes. Never. Always?

Never.

Touching her hand, I saw it, though. Saw it all.

That no matter where we were, we'd be together. We'd be in love.

Her face sunk when she found out I had a girlfriend. Perhaps I shouldn't have told her ... and gotten rid of the girl.

She sent a concerned email when she met my soon-to-be-wife. Was everything ok, she wondered?

No. Clearly, it wasn't. Because a wedding was planned, but it was not with her.

I'm not even sure I can write this. Or that I should.

I'd open an email from her, and all would melt away.

I'd see her and my heart would leap.

With the benefit of time, I can see events that would have happened.

I can see a future.

And I can see that after I let her go, my life took a path. One I desperately tried to escape. Those attempts at escape. They hurt the most. Leading me in unfamiliar directions -- away from the man who loved (still loves) her.

10 years ago, I had it all worked out. I'd move away. I'd start all over. Even go back to college.

I'd find a way to bring her along. Or, invite her out once I'd been established.

And wasn't that always the problem? Instead of taking a the moment when it came, I had to create the circumstances to make it perfect...and then, the moment never came.

Instead of asking her to marry me right then, the moment I knew, I waited. It wasn't right. It couldn't be right.

I've felt that intensity ...or something very close one other time. Since she left. Just once. There are probably maybe one or two or three in the world for whom each of us has such a connection. So, I've met my second.

But instead of using the lesson of M to guide me... I've become more guarded, more afraid. More careful in my execution of life.

I don't really know why I'm doing this. Writing this. But I keep thinking it. And it haunts me.

Not just because I may have saved her...but because I could have saved myself. Could have been the me I needed to be. Could have been me.

I think she loved me. I feel like she did. Maybe that's what causes the pain. I can never know, now. I could ask her sister, but I don't want to bring up that topic. Though I want to hear those words: M loved you.

But that's selfish. And painful. And won't change the reality.

All I can do now is this: Monica, I love you.

Can she hear me? Does she know?