I wish I could say that I've matured over this past year, that I now realize the circumstances I made the decision under were inconsequential, because there was only one decision I could make. That nothing about what happened mattered, because our relationship never meant anything to begin with. That it would have been over in three months anyway, when I left for school. That I've moved on, and I'm happier now with someone else than I ever was with him. That I can understand what she did, because I would have done the same, and did when I got the chance, and it was he that chose her over me for the long-term.

But instead, I feel is this gnawing regret, that comes at the worst times. Pomona College is a decent school. We could have had the summer, at least. As it was, I never knew him well enough to know what would have broken us apart - except him leaving. It meant something to me. A part of me that he uncovered trying to pull me out of my shell died when he left for the last time.

People say the pain fades, that the hurt goes away eventually. I can testify to the former. I don't think about it often, because I'm busy making happier memories. After two false starts and three more seperate chances, I started anew two months ago - and it's working.

But the hurt going away completely?

No.

I came to college looking for a strong chest to bury my face in, so I could say I had my eyes wide open, while being effectively blind to what was going on. But though I found plenty of unknowing volunteers, I couldn't lose myself in that. I kept looking back. The memory of what happened never left, and the hurt returns whenever my thoughts drift to it, or to either of them.

I can't say that I've let go. When a parallel situation arises in my dorm, when I see either of them online, when anyone mentions him, I feel it. Even now, though I haven't seen him or heard his voice in eight months.

More than my first puppy love crush who never kept his promises, more than the best friend I loved who kept quiet about being gay, he hurt me. More than my father, because with dad, at least, it was gradual so I expected disappointment. But him, he was just there...then gone, to kiss her tears away.

I wish I could say I understand his need to help the world's bleeding hearts. Her weakness is what drew him, true, but a part of me suspects she knew what she was doing when she broke down in that hotel hallway.

I know that's bitter, I have no illusions about that. I may understand why she did what she did, but that doesn't stop me from hating her. Even as my feelings for him fade into wistful regret, they remain constant for her.

I suppose a woman can only really hate another female. And for what better reason than stealing her love away?

But it's over. I told her to take care of him, and I still hope he is happy...even if, or though, it means being with her. It's up to me to resolve this within myself. I've started over, and it feels really right. I just wish I could stop letting myself be transfixed by these dead memories.