Pheonix

It's not always easy to recognize that you are wrong, especially when you've been deceiving yourself all along.

("You confuse the crap out of yourself," he observed.)

But I was wrong, and the realization (late though it is) is a relief. Everything is simplified when one knows what one believes.

("What was I thinking?" I demanded.

"I don't know!" he replied. "You tell me.")

Skip three months ahead, as my best friend laughs. Everything's falling into place. It's simple and scary and it keeps me up at night, smiling into my pillow. (Possibilities are almost as enchanting as promises.)

("You do?!" he exclaimed when I confessed it all. "YES! Gigantic red stamp of approval.")

I've been broken; I've been repaired. I've been angry; I've been hurt. I've been stupid; I've been naive. I've been cynical; I've been charmed. And yes: I've been wrong.

Things end, but I won't regret them: every mistake is merely a lesson.