There was a time when I took this whole craft too seriously. I put myself in situations completely out of my comfort zone and did things very much out of character, just for the sake of a good story. The Writer was born. The line between myself and this alter ego was blurry, and I liked it. I felt superhuman, unstoppable. There was a catch, though: where did The Writer end and I begin? And, most importantly, could I/us be loved?
No. Fuck no.
It was easy to write about my fleeting romances, because nobody would stick around long enough for these words to ever affect them. And the few that did stay weren’t bothered by my (our) stories. Until The Moroccan came along and everything became too convoluted to portrait in its entirety without hurting her and, at the same time, myself. The Writer had to be put to rest.
By the time you and I met, C, I had toned down my antics, for I couldn’t go on any longer down the same path. I was sick of it all. The disconnection from reality and people, the loneliness and this fucking role playing I had made of my existence. I wanted out, but didn’t know how or if it was even possible. But there was just something about you; something that kept me from running away or closing myself up to truly feel and giving myself up. As if I knew, somehow, that our relationship was destined to happen; my ticket out of decadence.
“Maybe there’s hope for me, after all,” I thought. At that idea stuck, through thick and thin. Until today.
I have not been completely honest. I am not only a writer, but also a big nerd. It’s no coincidence I’ve been working in IT for 16 years now. So when you asked me to block you from reading my blog, I lied about it not being possible. There are no unbreakable restrictions, but there are ways to do it. Just like there are ways to tell if people are visiting it and from where. So, even though I can’t be 100% sure it is you reading my posts and visiting my site up to 10 or more times a day, I can’t risk it. Hence, I’ve reflected profoundly about it and the impact it has had on me.
You know I am a sucker for consent. That’s why I have and will continue to respect your request of not ever contacting you again. Maybe wishful thinking took over me and I believed that this might not be the last I heard from you. But after two months, well, it’s time to let go of hope. And you.
I have no idea why you keep reading my blog. What are you looking for? Are you thinking about reaching out? Is it out of hate or spite, and somehow you get a kick when seeing me suffering? Is it because you still love me and want to see how I’m doing? Is it just an obsession? Is it fear of what I could say about you? Is it pride? What the hell is it? I don’t know. But it definitely is not healthy for me to keep ruminating on these questions every day. This has to stop.
You were right, love never fades. I love you and will always do, C. But this unbalanced non-relationship is too fucking unfair. You know everything about me, but all you left me with is the immutable last written message you sent. And a myst. For all know, you are with someone else already, and you hate my fucking guts and this shit I’m going through gets you going. Or maybe not, and any of the assumptions I could make are wrong. There are billions of different possible scenarios and all of them are as real as the next one. Anything can happen behind the closed curtains of silence.
I clearly didn’t live up to your expectations nor managed to make you happy. There’s no fix to that. But I can help you fulfill your wish of never hearing from me, ever again. Very soon, I’m banning you from my blog. If we wanna move on, this is the right move. And it all seems to indicate that’s what we are doing here. Otherwise, you’d reached out by now. You’ve always known where to find me.

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