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That boy – the one I thought I was going to marry – is married now to someone else.

When I found out, I was strangely unphased, and phased, at the same time. He had been engaged for what felt like six years. It’s about time, I thought.

At the same time, it was a unsettling and anticlimactic conclusion to a chapter that should have been closed along time ago. He was the only one who ever had real potential. Our relationship was not a fantasy or a fairy tail like many others had been. It had all the uncompromisable parts, and some added bonuses too.

The night I broke up with him on the phone, he told me he would come find me in two years. He never did. Instead he met a girl on a plane. No one ever meets the love of their life that way.

I have wondered what would have happened if he had shown up at my door after those two years instead. And immediately when I have that thought, I’m glad he didn’t.

I know it happened the way it should have.

And then I wonder.

This is the tension between what’s lost and found.

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