Amelia says -
My ex and I keep in touch - ish. About every 3 months or so I'll give him a call or he'll call me just to check in and see how the other is doing. We say we're going to meet up for coffee or something and then I consider my job done and forget about it until 3 months or so later when I figure it's time to give him another call.
But this time he called me on it. He asked me if I was ever really going to get together with him. I felt like a dick. So I said yes! Of course! Let's go to dinner next week. How about Monday?
So we went for dinner. At my favorite restaurant. A little Vietnamese place complete with bubble tea and all. Which I drank with my chow mein. And then I started to feel sick. I thought I'd just eaten too much so agreed to go for a walk with him. We started walking toward my house and I started to feel progressively sicker. So I said "walk faster. Just get me home without puking on myself ok?".
I made it so close. So close. I made it as far as the building next door to my house before I was bent over, one hand on the wall holding me up, puking pink noodles all over the place. He stood behind me rubbing my back and discretely stepping backward so I wouldn't vomit on his shoes. I managed to hold it down for a sec which I used to say "nice to see you bye!" and ran into my house.
That evening he called me. How nice. To see if I felt ok. To tell me that it was nice to see me. To tell me that seeing me brought up old memories. To tell me that he loves me. I'd successfully avoided a guy for 3 years and finally gave in and saw him and that's what I get?! Wasn't my behaviour poor enough to guarantee my safety from awkward situations like this? So I nicely told him that I didn't want to lie to him, because I thought that would only hurt him, and I just didn't feel it.
Now, when we are rejected, we have two options. One is to take it gracefully, or as gracefully as possible, and move on. The other, is to dig your heels in and fight. He fought. He asked me repeatedly why we couldn't be together. I explained repeatedly that I just didn't feel any chemistry any more. In my head I wished as loudly as I could for my roomate to come home, for someone else to call, for the apartment to catch on fire. Anything to get me off the phone. The pain finally ended when he, bawling now, told me that he couldn't see me anymore because it hurt too much, and my phone told me, beeping now, that it was going to cut off any second, and my conscience told me, you must have heard it screaming, that I was one hell of a bitch.