There’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just say it: I’m sorry. Very, very sorry. For everything. Too little, too late. I know. But I couldn’t even greet you like a fully functional human being if these words didn’t come out my mouth, a split-second after making eye contact. So, there you have it. The smallest retribution to all the pain and tear I caused to you and your life. It’s worth nothing to let it out as-is, without context nor the whole story behind this heartfelt apology. It’s worth fuck-all the years of decadence, bad decisions, doomed relationships, frail flings, monotone jobs, dead-end friendships, a parade of therapists and kilos of loony pills; all the shit that came after you. It’s nada. Zero. Absolutely no redeeming qualities nor material to make up bullshit excuses. Regardless of the suffering, the trauma, the hospital and the bloodshed; the heartbreak, the insomnia, the depression and anxiety. None of that was on you. It was me, as usual. I fucked it up. There and then, now and positively in the future.
You were right. I didn’t take any responsibility in my slow and steady descent into madness throughout our relationship. Selfish and insulting as this sounds, I wish I could have kept that narrow, petty narrative to this day. Blaming you for everything, as I did back then. Because if I did, forgetting you would have been guaranteed. “She was a fucking bitch. Case closed. Moving on.” Well, I did do that, during our years together and the following seasons after our breakup. That worked fine, sure. But no. Me, the idiot, had to dig into the wounds. Looking further, going deeper. And then came therapy. And the breakthroughs. And then, your last words. Full of anger, resentment… and love.
Fuck, L. Fuck.
We were perfect; a love story for the ages. But we wrecked it. Me, mostly, I’ll give you that. I’m very aware that the lion’s share of the drama and the tragedy was on me. I’ve not recovered, not completely, from this rage-driven asshole I became. Sadly, I don’t think I’ll ever be the man you loved again. That Eduardo died. The beast within me annihilated him. RIP. And the Devil and the God and all the divinities and cosmic entities chuckle whenever they rewatch our dramedy. “The Beauty and the Psycho.”
My engrained catholicism wanted punishment. First it was you, then it came my turn. Believe me, I’ve put myself through Hell. Don’t think I’m all the way out yet. But the biggest penalty of them all is nothing I nor the last few years thrown at me. It is this. Us. Apart. Forever.
You see, L, I think you are perfect for me. And God knows I’ve changed and grown and learned enough to match that. But I’ve stumbled upon your roommate search ad a couple of days ago and it dawned on me; this, that I didn’t quite comprehended before: I don’t fit in your life. What’s more, I don’t believe I’d make it any better, but rather worse. Between your filmmaking, the freelance journalism, your countless trips and all the hipster activities you engage in… Fuck, babe… I can’t add anything to it. You shine much brighter on your own. And me, The Monster who broke you once, I’m nothing but deadweight you’d had to drag along. You don’t deserve that. You don’t deserve me.
I’ve planned to reach out to you for quite a while. I waited until now, my first week of staycation, to finally draft it. But, upon further consideration, I think I’ll be best to leave you alone. This email, then, will be left unsent. Maybe, one day, you’ll find these words, somewhere. I hope there’s not a drop of love left for me in your beautiful heart, if that ever occurs. I also hope that your path finds you a man worth loving way more than I. Someone who treats you like the wonder you are. Unlike me.
Stay cool in Oslo, mi hermosa vikinga.

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