“5 years later on your 25th birthday.txt” — 25 october 2015
as i cut open a montréal bagel with probably the wrong knife and think of how i talked about bagels with three different people yesterday, i remember that was the year i actually made bagels, for you, for your birthday.
funny how those things go.
when i try to write, i cannot write what i want. when i think of one thought or memory, suddenly, the words come. i inhale.
you told me recently in our first real talk i’d say since we broke up that you didn’t want that to be your place in my story, where that is just another guy who fucked me over and left me for dead. at one point, it seemed like you could have been. but, no. last night i thought of writing, i’m not an ex you should be friends with, but then i realised that you and i were— are?, i don’t know— friends.
i am unsure of where i fit in the universe. a year and a half ago i knew so sure yet i hated where i was and didn’t want to move. a year and a half ago i was terrified of making bots. terrified of coding, and terrified of men. i’m still terrified of men and i’m still terrified of coding, but i’m a little less terrified of making bots. or so i’d like to think.