If you are reading this, then I probably went ahead and showed you this message even after I assured myself I was only writing this as some sort of tribute to the things we did not say. The truth though is that, while I tell myself that I wrote this only to chronicle our end, and perhaps, in so doing, find some kind of purgation for the feelings stuck under the palette of my heart, a part of me wrote it for you. I know you said you don’t want me to explain why I had to end us. I fear you said this to be safe from my version of the torturous story of our slow decent into nothing. So if you ever find that you’re needing closure, if you ever find yourself brave enough to know what happened, you’ll find this message, somehow.
I remember when I started trying to get close to you, and you warned me you were going to hurt me, because it is “what you do.” I brazenly told you that I was ready to be hurt if it would mean experiencing the magic that is you. I thought I was being reckless, brave, witty, romantic, you name it and that I would somehow change the course you were sure we would take by these virtues. I may have even succeeded in convincing myself, and maybe you for that fleeting while. But I was being naive. A part of me knew it even then. It was almost as if in the depths of both our hearts, we knew that we would end this way, but we told ourselves somehow that we would escape this inevitable. You were right, oh you were. You did hurt me, in more ways that you should have, in more ways than I deserved.
I loved you at some point. Don’t doubt it. Even after everything, a small part of me still does. But I do not regret our end, no. I do not celebrate it either. It’s like how you said it, I am indifferent about it. I will remember us for the fond memories, but I will not mourn our loss. Because, somewhere, deep down, I am assured that this is as far as we could have gone.
You were never mine to love; I don’t think I ever was yours to love either. We were two pieces of different puzzles, struggling, in a desperate attempt to find fit, to find meaning. We wanted different things, from each other, and of each other. I wanted your love, you mostly wanted my loving you. I wanted certainty, you wanted an undefined romance of convenience. I wanted meaning, you were okay with dreamy moments and tiny pockets of happiness we found here and there like children fiddling excitedly at a beach. I could never be okay with so little, but I tried to be for as long as I could – I tried. And in what became a tireless routine, I tried again and again to make us make sense to me.
You told me once that you were running freely through life, and that loving me was going to stop you from running; from being completely and utterly you. You always had your liking for the cryptic. I told you I wanted to run with you, whatever that meant to me. I knew even then I would not be able to keep up. Still I bargained, hoping to make something out of nothing.
I fell out of your love slowly. It started with an underlying anger, at you and at myself. When you kept repeatedly doing the things you knew hurt me and expecting me to forgive you, which I did; each time unfailingly, like a fool. I thought I was being understanding of your many imperfections, the fancy name I gave your many self-centred choices. But the truth is I was merely being docile, because I loved you too much to refuse your paltry excuses. And by being docile, I saved you each time from my dissatisfaction, only to save it up for the future. And with each time you hurt me, I was building up dissatisfaction, which came to overwhelm me, and undermine us. And so it started with anger at you and at myself, dissatisfaction which I cultivated by burying my unhappiness, and my insecurity which came mostly from our lack of indentity. But where it started with my own covert unhappiness, it certainly ended with your overt acts. Like how there was always a new guy who you like “a little” you wanted to tell me about, expecting me to be cool with, as though what we had was so flimsy as to deserve no effort from you; like how we remained undefined, in what became a torturous two years of uncertainty and nothing I did could convince you to abandon your convoluted aversion for commitment; like how you claimed we were just friends, even when we were certainly more, making me feel stupid at random; like how you refused to open up to me about the things that define you after everything, and how when you occasionally did let me in, you offered it like some compensation; like how you told me you loved me, but didn’t seem to mean it. In the end, I stopped loving you. The anger and dissatisfaction, the torture of uncertainty and distance combined to suck the life out of the depthless affection I thought I had for you. And that is why I had to end us; because you didn’t love me, and finally, neither did I you.
I didn’t mean to hurt you. Or maybe I did. Maybe a little part of me wanted to make you feel a pain akin to that you’ve caused me. To snatch a little from you, like you kept snatching from me. No, I don’t think I wanted that. I thought about it, but I never wanted it. Even when I did not love you, I still loved you.
I fear you blame me for our ending. Which is fine; I’ll take the blame if someone must. But I don’t think it is my fault if I were to be honest. If I look at it right, I don’t think it’s your fault either. Somethings you can’t control, somethings you can. This was one of the former. I wanted what you could not give. How could I blame you for that?
When I remember us, I’ll remember us as beautiful, as an enthralling picture. I’ll remember us for the nights we spent laughing in the dark, and saying soppy goodbyes (which distance cursed us to do often.) I’ll remember us for the moments of true magic, few as they were in our story. I’ll remember us like that evening in the theatre, when you kissed me for the first time.
You were right; nothing lasts for ever. I have had enough experiences with this truth, and so I have learnt with time this sacred art of letting go. And this is why we had to end; because we came to a point when letting go became an option.