It was a Tuesday night, mid-September last year. I hadn’t seen her since our official breakup by the end of August. We hugged, awkwardly, as she took off her shoes by the door and sat on my couch. I left Spotify streaming songs in the background, as we discussed the terms of a possible casual relationship. At some point, emotions took over and she cried, ever so gently. We had kept a respectful distance; the gap between us in the small sofa looking like the Great Cannon.
Last request by Paolo Nutini started playing, and in the silence of our tears I paid attention to the lyrics. “Sure I can accept that we’re going nowhere / But one last time, let’s go there / Lay down beside me.” I smiled at such properly timed song, then looked at her. There she was, more beautiful than ever. All I wanted to do was jumping over those fucking inches separating us and kissing her (and my) pain away. Which I did, eventually. Somewhat. Until two weeks ago.
The pain never left, but we did instead. Walked away on each other. Too much damage had been dealt, too many lies had been told. Yet, on the midst of this definitive breakup, when my anger and frustration don’t take over, I miss her. Deeply. She washed away the three horrors of relationships I was so afraid of: Sundays, dinners and activities. Goddammit, when we worked together, we really fucking worked. We were great in so many levels that it was hard not to overlook whatever else that didn’t work. Even today. Specially now with the time that’s gone by, sweeping the bad memories under the rug and polishing the good ones to a diamond-like shine.
I feel stupid when I think that I could have spent the following days with her, before my trip back to Chile this mid-February. But I knew (I believe we both did) that this make-believe relationship was unsustainable, at best. That continuing to postpone the end would, most likely, bring more suffering than anything. Though, reason aside, it still hurts. The absence, the withdrawal, the sleepless nights seeking her warmth in the dark, the breakfasts and dinners for one, the Netflix binging without sharing comments and ice cream. I don’t only miss her, but also all those small things that our world together was made of.
Despite of how things went down, I only wish her well. I hope she’s okay and that she is dealing with this much better than I am. My years are just numbers, they did not prepare me for this. How can one heal a broken heart? How, when the loss feels so big and the hole in the soul goes deeper than any ocean known to Man?

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