Dear [redacted],
I love you. I love you so, so much. I could never hate you, even after what you did. I wish I’d told you more how much I loved you, in our last messages. I know you love me the same way I do you, and when I think of you, you are thinking of me too. I couldn’t have you in the way I wanted, but still, I have you forever in my heart. You are one of the few people to really see me, who I can be truly myself around, who loves me for all the things I hate about myself.
You hurt me so, so much. I cried constantly, from Monday night until Wednesday lunch time. You made me so angry I imagined stabbing you over and over again in my mind, until your body was as bloody and fragmented as my heart felt. I had a work call where I turned my camera off, and just sat at my desk silently sobbing. I unmuted myself to update my projects while tears streamed down my face, trying desperately to hide the shakiness in my voice.
It was almost comical how dramatic I was. After work, I ran in the rain, listening to angry songs about breakups. It rains a lot here, which usually I hate, but today I was glad of it. The water obscured the tears streaming down my face, while the lyrics ‘I hope you never fall in love again, I hope you’re miserable until you’re dead’ blasted in my ears. And fuck, I really meant it.
Honestly, I have never felt so much rage and sadness towards another human being. How could you do this to me? Hold me in your arms so tenderly and tell me how much you love me, again and again. How you didn’t believe in marriage, but one day you knew you would end up marrying me. How you wanted to be around me all the time, never to be apart. How you wanted me to move to your city, wanted me to move in with you if I couldn’t find anywhere. You asked me to go on holiday with you, told me you’ve not felt this way in years, and never so strongly before. You told me you’ve never fallen for someone so hard.
I knew something was wrong, even as you said these words. I said I’d only ever been in love once before and only been in two relationships. Hurriedly, you clarified: ‘we aren’t in a relationship’ ‘I know that’ I replied. It was true, we weren't in one. We weren’t in one, because we’d met travelling, and only spent four days together, before going our separate ways. At the time, it was a mutual understanding of a sweet, but brief and uncertain connection. I moved back to Scotland, you moved back to London, and we saw each other once more over four months. Then I moved to Manchester, and you London, and now there was two hours on the train between us. Not impossible, but not ideal. I am not one, and never have been, to seek a long-distance relationship. I want my lover to be close to me, and missing them isn’t worth the short amount of time spent together. It would have been so, so much easier if I could have just found someone in my own city. But something changed after that first meet up, and we both fell, so, so hard. It sounds cliché, but when we are together, it’s electric. It almost feels surreal, every second with you is such a high. We laugh together, we’re cute together, we talk deeply together. You told me all your favourite things about me, your least favourite being how far away I lived. You kissed my forehead and held my hand. You called me your baby girl and ‘tiny squirrel’ and told me how special I was. We lay in a leafy park basking in the early autumn sun, blissfully content in each other’s presence.
That night, we went out drinking, and you referred to me as your girlfriend. Strangers saw how affectionate we were with each other and asked how long we’d been together. During sex that night, you told me how much you loved me for the first time. On the train journey home, you texted me to tell me how much closer we felt.
And it was true, after that weekend, we were closer. It was irreversible, there was no longer any pretences of just being a fun fling, we were something deeper. I visited you again two weeks later, and you couldn’t stop telling me how much you loved me. How you would do anything just to spent 10 minutes with me. And yet, we weren’t together, and our connection was still ambiguous. When I was with you, I couldn’t be happier, but when we were apart, anxiety consumed me. I needed clarity, and I knew I had to have all of you, or none of you at all. If I’m honest, I knew deep down you didn’t want a relationship. But still, the realisation, after all the intimacy, lead mostly by you, was a kind of heartbreak I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.
If you didn’t want a relationship, why did you act like we were already in one? We were never casual, not really. Casual isn’t cuddling all day in a hostel bed, casual isn’t having the best sex of your life multiple times a day, every day, for four days. Casual isn’t walking around all day holding hands, joined at the hip. And I know you didn’t think it was casual either, because it was you who labelled us a travel romance, more than just sex and hanging out. You have always openly and honestly acknowledged the depth of our connection, and that part is what makes you so confusing, because at the same time, you showed a callousness towards it. A throwaway comment would catch me off guard – a quickness to clarify we weren’t ‘together together’, a clarification that we were ‘so not serious’ when friends brought up the elephant in the room of how close we had become. The disconnect stung a little, but I said nothing, because logically, you were right, it was a temporary travel fling, there was no way I’d have wanted to start an intercontinental monogamous relationship after only four days together. But I would not have been so quick to dismiss our togetherness, or to so strongly oppose any accusation of seriousness. Because we weren’t together, and we weren’t serious, but I always saw potential for us to be, if things were different. I didn’t realise it at the time, but the reason your comments were so jarring is because you never saw that potential. For you, there was no confusion, no contradiction, no mixed signals. Together and serious were the two very things you did not want us to be, ever. You wanted everything else from me, except for commitment.
You fucked me, because you were attracted to me. You cuddled me, because you wanted to feel close to me. You spent every second with me, because we have an ease of being and connection that made being together the default, separation painful. After we parted ways, you texted me every day, because you missed me. You called me, because you wanted to hear my voice. You asked to see me again, because you couldn’t imagine never spending time with me again. You started calling me your tiny girl, because you adored me, you held my hand, to show how much you cared about me. You wanted me to move to London, to be around me. You developed feelings for me, because they were real. It was all real, everything was real, and that’s why it hurts so much.
There was a time I doubted it was real, and thought you’d just used me. I thought you couldn’t possibly love me, and still not want to be with me. I always thought ‘commitment issues’ were just a lame excuse men use when they don’t like you enough. You said you thought I didn’t want commitment either, a convenient projection perhaps, to ease your guilt. We spoke on the phone, and you were genuinely remorseful for how much you hurt me. You knew you fucked up, telling me you love me, but it really was the way you felt. But you fucked up way before that point, from the way you acted throughout. Even so, you are human and all humans need and seek out love, even the broken ones who are unable to give love fully. Sometimes I don’t know which is worse, for someone to pretend to love you for their own gain, or for someone to truly and deeply love you, and still be unable to show up in the way you need them. You said you would seek therapy for your issues, but I doubt you have, and doubt you will change. But still after everything, I love you. Months have gone by, and I still love you. I don’t think I can ever stop.