20/20

I went late night running. Late, late night, running so hard that I was worried I'd collapse onto something, then taking a break, walking, worried the sweat pouring off every bit of my body, worried my flushed appearance, worried my crazy eyes, would scare passersby. Worried people in cars would stop and offer help. Worried I would let it get to me. Worried it really is me. It really is me. Worried I would cry.

But I'm not a crier, so there. I'm a runner. And a writer. So I ran. And as soon as I got home, as soon as I could find it, I checked my phone to reassure myself that I didn't have an apologetic text awaiting me.

And don't you worry, prophecy not fulfilled. He doesn't want me. And that's fine. That's fine. It's fine. Until tonight. Until I see him out and no, he's not with a girl. No, I'm not with a boy. It's still the seeing him. I haven't seen The Musician in a month. Since he never returned my phone call. So I ran him out a month ago. I ran and dealt with the fact that I was shut down. But tonight, I saw him. And it has to happen. It does. I had to see him at some point, in a town this small.

Running at midnight says something. Running at midnight speaks volumes.

Volumes about how I can't pretend like I don't care. Volumes about how I don't handle this well. I went running at midnight to get rid of this anger. (A given, it's better than a bottle of merlot, but.) And the anger? No, it's not gone. It's there. I can't stand thinking about what he's thinking about me.

And why do I care? Why do I care? I need to worry about what I think. How I feel. If I'm okay with myself, if I'm happy on my own, if I'm good with late night runs and friends all the time and reading good books and my career and my life- why do I care? I get to listen to all of the girl music I want. I don't have to deal with the sharing bit. The consideration of another's feelings. So why do I care so much about his feelings?