There is joy in truth, and joy may or may not be pain.
I feel no sorrow for my actions until I speak of them aloud and dismissively to someone I think will not care at all. But when he does care, tears like allergies well up. Why should I be surprised? We side with our own kind. Telling the story was all a vanity to begin with, and so I accept my punishment.
Moreover, I know I chose rightly.
I am still wildly attracted to him, but it is all excitement and no feeling. Excitement, of a covetously intellectual sort, and still slightly smarting pride. Of course, in 6 weeks we will all disperse, and we will all pretend to be the best of friends and even the friendships of substance will grow empty with the glossing of socially acceptable Good Memories of College.
Have a nice life?
I will make my home among books, trees and large bodies of water.