Don’t you love it when you hit a rot? Getting to that low point where sexting with a complete stranger on Snapchat leaves you feeling sad and deep in thoughts. And then you never meet said stranger, which adds this cherry on top on what’s already not great. But it doesn’t end there. You can’t stop thinking obsessively about your exes. Stuck on the conundrum of where to go next. Choosing the potential solid, mature relationship that could come from reconnecting with the woman who changed your life and brought you to Europe. Or risking yet another heartbreak and mental breakdown by pursuing the dame you’ve been -literally even, lately- dreaming about. Tricky, no? So you stay up until 2 AM playing video games, wondering if sending a friend request to the latter over on Snapchat was a good idea. Constantly checking the app to see if she had added you back. And now it’s 2 PM of the Saturday after and you keep checking your phone, and it seems that she just blocked you. And you recall checking her Facebook profile in the past evening and feeling comforted, homy and “hygge” (as these damn Danes say) looking into her eyes. As if she had never left. As if the last thirteen months you’ve been apart have not past. But they have and she clearly blocked you on seeing that sudden request notification on her phone. Which is understandable when you think of all the shit you’ve written about her in your soon-ish to be released novel, based on this blog. And your therapist’s advice against her comes and go. But what does she know? She’s getting married with the guy she’s been together with for almost 20 years. What the fuck does anyone know in their perfect little functional lives? Though they all seem happy or, at least, complacent of their choices. And the longer the days, weeks and fucking decades pass; the more ostracized I become from societal norms and the general public’s understanding. You are alone in this. You, who chose differently. Or didn’t. “Different” just kind of happened. And you are, staring at the walls and the ceiling and out the windows and the world revolves around normalcy and conformity and you go back and forth between the next move. Whatever gets you the fuck out of this crossroad. And checking the phone again, as if there was a sign waiting to be revealed to you, for this to make sense. But maybe the sign is just there, in plain sight. She wants nothing to do with you. She’s got 13 months, after all, to show herself. To apologize. To say “Fuck off.” To block you from any online platform you might think of. But she’s not done it. Is she waiting too? Are you both waiting and, stupidly, not making any move? Has she changed completely, has she matured and grown, or is she the same shitstorm-made-person that ravaged you completely? Do you wanna be broken again? Or are you using her as a scapegoat for your primal terror of the pleasant, uneventful life you’ve been running away from for the last seven years? Then you can’t but acknowledge that you do, indeed, love her still. And this knowledge makes you wonder, then, if you can be truly happy with someone, anyone, while you can’t say for certain you won’t want to hold her to sleep for the rest of your life if you had the chance? And does this uncertainty sums you up, as a whole? Then your therapist is right when she says you seek conflict and distress, for is the only constant you are accustomed to. Maybe pain is home. Because that’s all you saw and experienced growing up. “Dolor reculiao’” you say, in Chilean Spanish. Fucking hurt. Suffering. Then those brown eyes come up in your mind again; eyes so dark she said when she was in kindergarten a boy bullied her saying she only had pupils. “Yeah,” you think, “I still remember that and everything else she said.” Oh, fuck, and here come the tears again. What if, against all logic, common sense and evidence, she was being honest when she said she didn’t cheat on you? What if this tranquility you felt in her arms was the only sign you need to make a decision? But, then, what if your choices are made based on this subconscious need for suffering to fulfill your idea of what a family and love should be? And why checking your Snapchat again seems necessary? What has changed? Has anything? And then you might look at the one paragraph you’ve been writing for the last hour and think that’s enough. It’s a whole page already. Time to wrap up. Everything. You know that it’s not up to you anymore. The Universe, The Gods, Fate. Let them take over. She’s aware now that you have opened the door for her to come back and act on it. You’ve proven her that the door never did close. But it won’t stay open for long. It’s been too much already. You deserve happiness. You are done. “Life is boring, most of the time, even if you are with the right person,” your therapist said on Wednesday; “Why are you so afraid of boredom?” Good question. Why are you willing to sacrifice a stable and healthy relationship for the excitement of one that can fuck you over, once more? “I’m a gambler,” you say, smiling. She’d be the biggest bet against all odds that you’d take. But… What if? Not up you to make that call anymore. The ball is on her court, right? One last time. August will come soon; your summer holiday is around the corner. What will it be? Three weeks to either travel to Jylland and get together for a new beginning, or for taking the time to write a compelling, heartwarming email to, perhaps, end up in Oslo commencing the last relationship you’ll ever have? The next few days will tell. So, tell me: Don’t you love it when you hit a rot?