That one morning I woke up and realized I was out of love with him. Shit. This was not supposed to happen! How will I ever write again? What will my words be if not vehicles of pain and longing? And who will they be for if not for him?
The morning was too normal for an event of this significance. I could hear the comforting sirens of an ambulance or a police car in the distance through the windows and the useless banter of blue-eyed freshmen. There was someone walking outside, struggling by the sound of her heels on the pavement. Coffee in hand, pacing down her to-do list, hoping someone would take the clothes out of the dryer. Even the sun was out, a dampening force in the perfect picture of a universe imploding.
I thought a few thoughts. Backspaced them in my mind. Thought more. Backspace.
The idea of him was enough to love, but in flesh, his demons were too big. And there were so many things that could fill up the space he occupied, the hours I spent talking to him, or being with him, or thinking about him, or thinking about what he was thinking about. Like dreams and ambitions, and bowling for the first time, and programming little computer games, and discovering what the hell supply chain finance entails, and how SEPA is the best thing ever, and why Basel 3 must be treated with a pinch of salt. It was almost liberating, being able to smoke the occasional cigarette without the hectoring, buying pinchy shoes without the puffing, and ducking kisses from charming strangers in Saturday night socials. It was a good life, except it didn’t have him in it.
I didn’t know what life was like without him, I didn’t want to imagine it because it seemed ugly and cruel and he still loved me. After six years, perhaps some fizzing out was inevitable. Maybe it was worth resuscitating. But his addictions always won. Without fail, he’d be in the hospital for some new sort of overdose which fuelled his artistic passions and helped him paint and amplified his perception.
Now and then I think of when we were together
Like when you said you were so happy you could die.
What a fucking mess. He didn’t even speak my language, thought I was killing my music by studying a degree with actual-world use, asked me to buy a violin without fail after the number of times I had said no. He was difficult and overbearing and full of existential conflicts. Yet he was not replaceable. No one else said the kind of bold, outrageous, senseless things he said. No one else was as flawed to perfection.
You can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness
Like resignation to the end, always the end
And yet, he wasn’t a charming stranger on a Saturday night social. He didn’t make me shiver anymore. That was quite a deal-breaker in my mind.
I'm already writing like I'm on an oestrogen binge.
Get out of my head. I don’t love you.