So where was I? Let's begin again; I think I'm ready.

The dates had blurred and I can't really remember. I just remember moments and lots of dialogue. There was screaming. And yelling. And arguing.

What happened to us?

I called him the first week I was back and I didn't know why. I just picked up the phone and dailed his numbers. I knew it by heart; how could I forget? After three long years, it's been engraved. I felt idiotic for calling and somewhat embaressed, first and foremost, because I was calling and I had only been down here for a few days. Second of all, because it had been so long since we spoke that I almost felt like I was acting. Our conversation was forced polite small talk and all I could think about was, I must be the biggest idiot in the world.

Over the summer, he had called occasionally as he always did. We never really did let go of each other. Not entirely. One of us would call every two months and we would get sucked back in that viscious cycle of jealousy and passionate first love, of course, because this diary is an entire account of all the times that we grew dizzy from constant the unending merry-go-round.

I remember this one night he called. My recollection on the details might not be completley accurate but I remember lying down on the couch beside the T.V, the really soft one by the French Doors that leads to the backporch. And it was late. And my sister was upstairs probably on the phone with her then-boyfriend, and my brother was probably online talking to his friends back in Kansas City. And I'm not sure how it even began. If he called first or if I was online earlier, we spoke, and then he called. Or whatever. All I know was he said the things that I wanted to hear the most a few months prior. The few simple phrases that could have saved me from myself. But by then it was too late, time had passed and I was a different person from whom he last loved. It was the first time that I didn't jump on the opportunity to take him back. It was the first time that I didn't call him back when he hung up. We were on the phone for an hour and suprisingly I didn't budge: It was over.

But all the while we were on the phone, I can't deny that I felt it still. That heart-tightening, barely breathing, lung-clenching, teeth-gritting, face-contorting, tear-inducing ...feeling, he always gave me. But for the first time, I brushed it away. And I held my ground. And he said all of this in his Romeo-like ways but I was so cold. I was such a bitch. I hung up and it was the first time I didn't call back. I was impressed with myself that I didn't give in. I took a moment in my disbelief to just think, woah, that was it. That's how you do it. That's how you let go. And it was over. And he didn't call back. And neither did I. Because I had changed. Chicago had changed me. But there was a part of me that hurt to not comply, but my pride grew 1000 feet those months of summer, and I wouldn't let him hurt me like he always did. I refused to let myself become less than who I was, because by then I came to the conclusion that I wanted more, that I deserved more. By then, I had my flings and one night stands. And random boys. And that is a completely different story, that I would go into later, if I could. I tried to say over the summer but I hardly cared about writing and being indepth and profound seemed just a faded memory of my prepubescent emo-ish days. And who cared about what kind of new boys I was with? Hm.

At the end of that conversation, I felt empty but it was closure. And I could finally move on with my life.

Or could I? Because as soon as I got back I had called. And it was a ring-ring on the telephone to him and the first mistake was made by me. It must've been out of habit. And everything was feeling too strange in a familiar place that I needed someone ...him. And so I called. And then I felt like an idiot as I got off the phone and sat dumbfounded that I would hurt my pride in any manner. I walked up the stairs brushing off my shoulders and making up stupid excuses for myself that way I wouldn't feel bad about calling him.

He called then.

And my pride came back but so did my uncertainty. And that's where it began. Because that weekend or so, I saw him for the first time in half a year. I was over at my friend's, Jenna's house, and he came over with his best-guy-friend, Jacob. I was upstairs still getting ready and putting on my eyeshadow. I heard his voice and my heart skipped a beat. And I could hardly breathe. But I brushed away that feeling again. I let my pride settle in. I closed my eyes to collect myself and as soon as I opened them I turned and saw he was walking up the stairs towards me. And I was caught in a moment. I just stared. And he jumped up and twirled me around in the hallway. And it felt like old times and I hated myself for being uncertain, but most of all, for liking it. I said some smart-aleck rude remark and he set me down and I continued to get ready. But my heart was beating a million miles per minute and everything was just becoming hazy. Again, I brushed it off. We walked towards the cars to leave to go to some party. Scott and Jacob tried to steal Jenna's Vodka; and I couldn't believe how immature he was, but how his childish mannerisms still made me smile and roll my eyes in playful dissaproval. I caught myself before I let anyone see me looking at him. Jacob came up to me and asked if I still loved Scott. And I flat out said 'no.' I was reminded then why I never got along or even liked Jacob; he lacked finesse and eloquence in so many ways. At least I didn't have to be in the car with him because I was forced to ride in the car with Scott; he 'wouldn't have it any other way.' He said we needed to talk about things, so Jacob rode in Jenna's car and I rode in Scott's. The entire night was a silly account of invinciblity at it's finest; cruising around the town trying to find parties, laughing up inside jokes, and blaring the music with the windows down. It was just like old times, it was just like nothing had changed and I had never moved. It was like whatever happened this past year dissapeared underneath some invisible rug. He was a smart-ass and I was a witty bitch; and we just fit. Perfectly. During those moments, I was reminded of why all the guys up in chicago didn't work. The entire time I was looking for someone, the entire time, it was Scott all along. He was exactly what I was looking for but I had just forgotten. Our chemistry was boiling and our attraction was just like the first time we made love.

But, I was damned if I ever let him hurt me again. So kept quiet and let my inner bitch take over. I kept up my walls and stacked my bricks. He was the only boy who knew me inside and out; the only boy romantically that I was completely vulnerable to. I couldn't let him know that. When I had a guy call me from chicago, I flirted endlessly on the phone. And I felt his sigh. And the feeling came back, but I brushed it off again. Fuck him; he hurt me. So I never really looked him square in the eye. And I never really spoke because all the things I was saying weren't how I felt. So I pretended, because that is what you're suppose to do in situations like those.

I came home that night even more uncertain than before.