My apartment in Frederiksberg has become some sort of a shrine or altar to honor our time together. It looks very different to what you saw, last time you were here. I’ve got all the things that were missing, in your words, to make my place feel like a home. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve moved on from you (or the idea of “You”.) Though, to be fair, I don’t think you’ve moved on from me either. It seems like our mutual past, whatever version of us we were back then, tied our existences with some sort of invisible and indestructible thread.
When you weren’t being shitty, unfaithful or stubborn, you gave me most of what I wanted from a relationship. Remember I told you I was terrified of three things in a relationship; dinners, activities and Sundays? You erased those fears. If only that was the only thing you did, huh?
History tends to be rather cruel and ironic, for me. When I asked L, my previous girlfriend, to marry me, I truly meant it. She was “The One.” But I wasn’t. Maybe I am now, seven years later, with all the baggage and knowledge I’ve accumulated over time. But then you came along. Same thing -perhaps. “The Other One.” Yet, this time it was you who wasn’t ready. And history repeated. Uniting me with women I profoundly fall for, but that are immense gaps away from my current path.
You are lucky, C. You’ll never meet anyone like me. Not ever. Nobody who’s the same type of crazy, messy and complex as I am. And even better: nobody that physically resembles me; specially if you stay in Denmark. The magic of genetics and Latino mix-race! Me, on the other hand, am condemned to running into “you” all the fucking time. Constant reminders of the past, running around the lakes, chilling at the parks, grocery shopping at my local supermarket… You fucking Danes and your systematic inbreeding, goddamnit! I’m not allowed to forget you so easily, C. It fucks me up. Less and less now, but still does.
I hope one day soon I’ll meet you, and not one of your doppelgangers. Maybe we can finally have an adult chat and you can, at last, letting me in on the truth. As painful as it might be, it’d be nice to have it laid down before me, as the last step for my impending closure. That’d be the best way to end things up. Wouldn’t you agree?
I don’t wanna hate you. I’m trying to forgive you and letting you go. This hurtful resentment is keeping me stuck. I should know better. I can, to certain degree, sympathizing with you. I’ve been toxic, way more than you ever were to me, towards my ex L. I’ve been down that road too.
If you indeed loved me as much as you said you did, you probably still feel this emotion. Love doesn’t just leave us. I wish it did; it’d be so much easier to deal with our breakup. So yeah, I know what you might be feeling. It’s a damning pain within. It’s been six years for me and it won’t go away, as an open wound that keeps on bleeding to the touch. Maybe you feel it too?
My ex L might see me as a monster. It’s always easier to be the victim of an abusive relationship, in the long run. Once it’s over, you will -rightfully so- get all the support and care. Being on the other side, as the perpetrator, is shit wall to wall. I mean, if you take responsibility and acknowledge your mistake. Again, I can empathize with you, if you are there. That’s why I’m writing this now.
I’ve always been keen to repair things. A broken toy, a malfunctioning machine, an abandoned and battered piece of furniture; I love to care for them, and trying to give them new life. In this last month, as I await to begin my new job in July, I’ve been getting deep into DIY and repurposing or upcycling my boring IKEA furniture. Maybe in the same spirit I wanna fix my own life and past relationships. Bringing colors and vitality to what’s now gray and cold.
Would you like to give me a hand?

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