Are you happy now? Living your best life? YOLO-ing? I ain’t. Got fired last week over similar bullshit that got me kicked out from my previous job. Already had been making people annoyed with my intrusive personal questions on every Friday bar, and the icing on the cake was my drunken performance on my team’s event. Flirted with the one married girl I shouldn’t have. Honestly, I wasn’t better than you. Would have fucked her if I had the chance. But, instead, her manager came to “rescue her” from me and dragged me out of the party. The morning after, I got a call from my boss to let me know I was being let go. Fuck me dead…
Been stalking you the last few days. I guess we always come back to the places where we were happy once. You look good. Specially on that picture in front of your team. Very pro, I admit. I never thought you had it in you, but you pulled it off. Somehow. Congratulations, sugar! You’ve done far better than I. Must say I envy you.
Must say I miss you, too.
You’ve been showing up in my dreams, over this last week. Maybe the magnetic pull of our black holes keep colliding, from a safe distance. Perhaps you wonder about me as well. And maybe you’ve done that “hard look at yourself” crap, already. And you regret what you did to me. And you wanna apologize and are afraid of my reaction. Or not. Whatever the case, besides looking for a job (to not getting kicked out of Denmark, as worst case scenario;) my brain keeps gravitating towards you.
This confession doesn’t come from a place of desperation. Have not been an incel for long. Women keep coming and going through my fancy walnut bed. By the time I wash the sheets, they are gone and then the next one stands in the queue. Rinse and repeat. But obsessively I continue to compare them to you. Seeking a fragment of your scent behind their ears, in their hair, between their breasts. Then no, they aren’t you. Lackluster fucks, suboptimal cuddling, rare to none spooning to sleep.
We had it good, didn’t we?
Not gonna undersell your goods, babe. Never have I been so intensely close to anyone, nor felt as desired. And what kept me attached to you was that goodness. The long hours we could spend doing fuck-all and anything active: in the house, in the kitchen, in your or my room, in our hikes or trips. I don’t believe you had had this either. Sure, some men fulfilled some of those areas, but none of them ticked all the boxes like me. And here we are now, apart.
I’m hoping someone comes soon. Blow me off my feet, like you once did. But in a good way, this time around. None of the toxic shit, but all of the enjoyment and fun. “Maybe a DM on Instagram. Maybe a comment or an email coming from my blog. Or, maybe, a fucking match on one of the apps…” I keep ruminating. Nothing ever happens, though. And here I am, alone in my apartment on a Saturday evening. Knowing no texts nor notifications will make my phone ping. No excitement. No nothing. Just aloneness.
I’ll be leaving for Chile in a couple of weeks. Between you and me, I’m not very pumped about the trip. I’m rather impartial to it. To anything, really. Throwing my CV around all companies coming up on Linkedin instead, while daydreaming about you coming back. Or me, crossing the bridge over to Jylland, on my way to your place. It’d be nice, huh? Cuddling in the gray and cold of the winter. Having dinners and shopping and walking around. Biking somewhere. And making love. Lots and lots of it.
Queue the music. Set the scene. Adjust the colors. Slow motion. The hug incoming. Now the kiss. People clap in the train station, smiling at us in awe. Emotions run rampant. Pan out. Fade to black, slowly. The end. Roll credits.

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