You should’ve seen me last night. Sitting on my big ass gray sofa, alone (as usual;) drinking an organic beer and eating some fancy purple French crisps while watching true crime videos on YouTube. What a textbook coronavirus Friday night, huh? And I felt very tired. Just finishing my second week at my new job; it gets exhausting very quickly, with all the new colleagues and getting familiar with strange code and software. But what really fucks me over ain’t any of that. Sadly, my office is located just a couple of blocks away from your old flat in the city. I pretty much take the same route than I did all those times I dropped by your place on my bike. It fucks with me. All the memories come rushing in. The times when we loved each other. When you cheated, as well; yet kept a facade of normality and a thick veil of gaslighting to keep me in the shadows. It worked and, although fucked up, I cherish the mementos in your bed, of blissful ignorance. The evenings at your kitchen, cooking dinner. The glasses of wine and low lights, as we flirted and laughed over some nice food. Devouring ice cream on the sofa, across the room from your fake gaslit fireplace; while watching Game of Thrones, Killing Eve or some movie. And I recall my hands holding yours under the blanket, and looking at you wearing your glasses, looking like a million bucks. I loved you so much, you see? As the beer went down my throat and the hours passed, while it was freezing outside; I thought of you, of us. I swiped on Tinder, desperately, as I’ve been since I dumped your ass back in June. But nobody has that fucking smile you left in the fucking pictures in my phone and imprinted in my memories. Nobody I’ve touched since you came into my life barely compares to you, nor smells alike, nor blows me with such passion nor cuddles me with the same intensity. No one spoons with me all night and gladly cooks for me as you did. I’m afraid, you know? It’s scary to never find someone like you. Because, let’s be honest: not even you were really “you.” It was so easy for you to lie, cheat and deceit; it came so naturally that I don’t know who in reality you fucking were. And I keep banging my head against the wall, trying to shake you out of my goddamn mind. Choking on the bitter taste of the reality I refused to see for so long. Doubting if I ever really loved you, when you never showed me who you really fucking were. Yet, naively holding on to the thought of having seen flashes of genuine “you” in certain moments of our routine together. It’s hard for me to believe that you faked a persona 24/7. is that even humanly possible? Were you even aware of what you were doing? Is this a defense mechanism, a mental condition or are you simply a fucking evil bitch? I hate you. I love you. I go back to hate you and then to fall in love with you, all over again. My therapist said it’s gonna take some time. I’ve met other abuse victims and they are years down the line and don’t seem to get better at all. I wanna believe I’m different. That this whole ordeal will pay off at some point. That I’ll find a way to get in control of my own existence. And I resent your ass, yet I don’t want anything bad to happen to you. And in a sick, fucked up way I want you to be a fucking sociopath, so you won’t ever have to experience the pain I still feel for the abuse I put my ex L under, just as you did with me. And I sometimes feel over it and have the balls to say “C, I forgive you.” Then I bike by your building on my way to work and I despise you again. Then I’m on the couch, down my second beer, and all I want is you to cuddle me to bed. Then it’s Saturday morning and I cry as I write this, because I remember when I saw you wearing your glasses for the first time when we were at your place watching Logan and my heart melted. Remember? You looked back at me with a smile intermittently and in each look I fell more in love with you. (And now I can barely see because I’m weeping.) And more than sad I’m glad it’s sunny today and the sun out gives me some hope that even in the dark, gray Danish winter there is some warmth and the world looks better under the light of day. It was fucking hell to love and hate you, but I rarely have experienced such deep emotions, such good sex, such tenderness and rage, all combined. So I hope you are well and that you don’t read this and feel like there is an “Us” waiting to happen. Because I won’t ever let you get even close to me without a compelling, heartfelt, humble apology. And having done work on yourself and undergone therapy and proper treatment. And experiencing true change. So then, I kinda know you’ll read this and, again, think that I’m the problem, because you were always so adamant, certain and clear that I was. Or am. And in a way that’s fine by me, as long as it makes you feel good with yourself. You do you; whatever makes you happy. I’ll try to get myself better in the meantime. Scared of this loneliness dragging on and, you know, it’s my birthday on the 25th of January and I’ll be 38 so damn soon. And all I want right now is having a decent night’s sleep and finding a woman who helps me recover faith in love and humanity. Yet I’m so afraid of that ever happening and, abracadabra, it was all a lie. Again. Fuck… Does it ever gets better? “It’s okay to miss parts of the relationship. That doesn’t mean you miss her or the relationship itself. Don’t feel guilty, don’t beat yourself up;” my therapist said. I love her, so wise. I agree. No need to feel bad for feeling bad. I need to pick myself up from this miserable, -figurative- shit stained floor. It’s a process and this pain puts words on the page and my mom said to me, at the very beginning of our relationship, “Esa chica te va a inspirar a escribir un libro.” And, if I measure the sheer amount of words that you triggered my fingers to type, she has proven to be right. This will be a book one day. The book of you. Of us, who aren’t “Us.” And that’s enough to feel that this agonizing pain has been worth it. So… Thank you? I guess.