When I was 20 years old, my boyfriend died. These days, almost four years later, I think about him still. But I wouldn't ever tell my mom how much I think about him.

When I was 20 years old, I was sure that it was the highest form of love. That we were in love, and that we would have done anything for each other. No matter what. But I couldn't tell my mother, or anyone else, straight forward that now I question everything. Not that I didn't ever love him. I did love him. But with time I can't get any legit perspective.

My roommate got dumped tonight. And she kept telling me that I didn't understand because I've been in significant relationships. All I could do was wonder if it were actually true. What makes a relationship significant? I hate having to struggle with that. I know what his family and my friends would say. That it was love, and we were the right ones for each other. That can't be true. Because if he was the right one for me he would still be here. I wouldn't ever have to miss him, unless we spent a night apart. I thought we'd be married. I thought that he'd be in law school and that i'd be teaching, and that we'd be happy. I never thought I'd have to wonder if what I thought when I was twenty years old was true.

And here I go, being an emo-Debbie Downer after celebrating my roommate's birthday.

Kyle was right when he said I have intimacy issues. I know myself now, and I know he's right. Although maybe it's been perpetuated by a few people since then.

So Death,  once again, you have the upper hand. I'll never know the answer. Was it love or wasn't it? I cared, and I still cry, and I still feel an emptiness inside, so I'll take that for what I can.  I think, with a little perspective, and trying to take the rose-tinted glasses off, that I would have been happy with him every day. Every day. Even with bumps in the road. Until at least today, July 14, 2010. We both would have changed a lot. But I think I would have been happy.

And I'd never tell my mother that.