tumblinas.

The only thing we’ll never be.

I just stumbled upon the boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend’s blog. Not the ex I’m jealous of; this is the ooooold one. The one from nearly five years ago whom he grew to loathe after an ultimately unhealthy five year relationship.

But this was also his first real grownup thing. They had a dog together, lived together. Traveled together, knew each other’s families intimately.

We live together now in that same house.

Sometimes I walk around and just observe the tile they put down together in the kitchen or the mosaic garden stones she left decomposing in the backyard, under the thickets and brush.

And it makes me feel a little sad. Like coming upon Pompeii in the aftermath, maybe. I think of all the young optimistic decisions they made together and how they imagined they were building blocks, leading to an increasingly distant someday or forever. And it didn’t. And it makes me ache for them a little…..and yes, I’m aware that’s incredibly bizarre.

But today, I found the first real glimpse I’ve ever had of her in real time - a blog she started on cooking and dieting, her husband and their dogs. And it is sooo surreal to listen to her summarize her daily lunchtime walks, new recipes for paella and the restaurant they went to for Valentine’s day. It is incredible to wander into this whole new life that has been spinning away miles from where we live. I guess because in my mind, she’s frozen the same place she is in the boyfriend’s: In those tired, angry final days of their relationship. I picture her 27, selfish and bitter, off on her own looking for something more to please her while he’s at home, glad for the break from fighting. It’s strange to realize she’s not that anymore. And it makes her harder to dismiss, somehow more human and attractive in her own right.

There’s something odd and unsettling about those early loves, those naive firsts we’ve both built a semblance of a life with way back when. Even if they ended poorly, they’re irreplaceable. He’ll never naively shop for a first house again; nor will I.

I am a lot of things to him - things she never was. And I don’t regret a day of the life it took to lead me to him; but I will never be her for him.

For better or for worse, those sweet young five years can only be spent once.