I woke up late Saturday morning to find several messages from Trent.
Trent: I'M SORRY. I NEVER MEANT TO HURT YOU.
Trent: CAN WE PLEASE TALK ABOUT THIS?
Trent: I LOVE YOU.
Trent: CHLOE. PLEASE. I DON'T WANT TO FIGHT WITH YOU.
Trent: I HATE KNOWING I'VE DISAPPOINTED YOU.
Trent: AND I CAN'T STAND KNOWING YOU'RE MAD AT ME.
I sighed and began to type back a response.
Me: I'M NOT MAD AT YOU. I'M JUST DISAPPOINTED. BUT YOU WERE RIGHT. I stopped typing, then deleted everything. Hesitating, I debated what I should send to him.
Deep down, I knew he was right, and I hated that he was. But I wasn't mad at him; I was just severely disappointed, and I needed time to grieve the loss of a dream. I turned off my phone, set it screen-down on the nightstand, and curled up beneath my blankets.