Farewell

I've just realised that I never wrote about love, my own love.

I wrote plenty about you, but never about the manner in which I loved you.

I know you know. I've told you that, but let me explain a bit more.

Ever since I met you, I've loved teasing you, irritating you, and getting on your nerves.

I thought that was the only way I could get to know you better.

Every time anyone said the slightest unkind word to you, my heart would twist.

I don't mean that metaphorically; it would literally twist. It hurt.

I was never worried about you because I knew you'd handle it with grace, and you did, always.

I would worry if you were hurt by what stung you most, but I never witnessed that.

You might not have kept your composure then.

Knowing you, you'd probably lose your temper, but I was never there if that ever happened.

I was happiest listening to you talk for hours on end.

I loved you in a way that made me feel your pain a thousand times more intensely, and if you were happy, I was over the moon.

I loved you, as in I could recognise your handwriting; you had that peculiar way of writing numbers.

Sometimes, I'd write them the same way you did and smile at the happy accident, because it reminded me of you.

I loved your name, as in it would sting whenever I heard it.

For a full year, hearing your name hurt an awful lot.

It took me another year not to be saddened by it and a few more not to anger me.

I still wonder if I put a little too much affection into saying your name.

I missed you quite a lot. I felt a void if I couldn't see you or talk to you for a while.

I loved the way you said my name, the way you cared.

You are incredibly smart, and I adore your mind.

I felt alive when you shared your thoughts with me, and I wanted to talk to you for hours.

I loved your intellect so much, too much.

When I met her, and she asked me about you, I smiled and said I didn't know, only to cry about it later.

Why would she ask me about you?

What was I to him, Miss?

What am I to you?

You hadn't reached out in years, how would I know?

That hurt too much!

I miss you a lot more in moments of despair.

Your laughter sent a spiral of joy down my spine.

I can recognise you among thousands.

I loved you so much that I lost a soulmate in the process.

Now, I grieve both of you, and it doesn't help that I still see you two getting along so well, even now, while I struggle to unlearn my love for both of you to no avail.

I loved your jacket.

I was in awe of how skilful you were.

How could you be so good at dealing with people, always getting your point across, never missing your target?

I loved you as in I put you on a pedestal and thought less of any other man.

You'd be surprised at the number of memories I could call upon every day to remember you, both as a means of comfort and torture.

There is still mercy in the control I have.

Merciless are the times when I did not want to remember you, but had no say in where my mind would wander.

You understood me better than I understood myself.

I could not fathom how that was possible, but it was.

I was there every time you got it right.

A weight was lifted off my shoulders.

It was as sweet as a soothing embrace.

Your support faltered when I needed it most, and you simply watched as I broke.

I never told you the misery I had to bear, and to see you standing there, pity in your eyes, saying what you said was the biggest betrayal.

You broke my heart.

You broke me.

I would have never doubted you.

I would have never pitied you.

I loved how easy it was for me to exist around you.

I loved you, flaws and all.

However, it was your choice, wasn't it?

Letting go was your choice.

I understand that now.

I finally do.

So, this is me letting go.

I keep the paper you gave me as a keepsake to prove that you once cared.

Would you believe me if I said I didn't recognise the part you wrote about me until now?

It sounded too good to be true back then. After all, it was, wasn't it?

I have enough incentive to dislike men, but you are the reason I cannot love any other man.

I know I said I loved you; if I say I no longer do, I flatter myself.

Loving you now means forgiving you a bit more every day because you robbed me of the ability to love anyone else.