Vincent Thomas Bridge.

Andrew called the other day and left a message saying that He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named asked about me. (Yes, Lord Voldemort.) I'm sure he asked in passing, in a nonchalant "by the way, how's Marianne?" kind of manner. Truth: I was perfectly fine with keeping him out of my life. In fact, he hasn't invaded my thoughts in over six months, except for the random text a few weeks ago when he asked me to go to his show in Hollywood. But even then, it didn't faze me and I brushed it off with ease.

For some reason, Andrew's voicemail hit me hard. Of course it was only for a moment, but it was one highlighted with tears welling up in my eyes. I fell into a daze, knee-deep in memories of him and what we used to be. Strolling along the lighthouse at Point Fermin Park. Stealing kisses at our cliff overlooking the most spectacular sunsets. Making silly faces at the jellyfish in the aquarium. I missed him. But only for a moment. My lapse of judgment lasted a mere ten seconds at most and I shook myself out of it just as quickly. I'm better and relatively more breakdown-free without such a toxic being in my life. I know it. Our relationship, no matter how dysfunctional, had its good moments, but the past is the past and that's where it shall stay.

2S to the 5S to 110S. Sorry, but the bridge is broken. I know the phrase is "burned bridge," but you can't really burn a metal bridge no matter how long you hold the match to it, can you?
PS. Embarrassing face-palm moment the other day when I left a comment on someone's blog that it wasn't meant for. I deleted it. Without an apology. Because I was so freaked out. The blog names were just oh-so similar! Shoot me.


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