“This is the last time.
I just want to tell you I’m saying goodbye. To you and the friends we share.
For the past 4 months, I’ve actually been doing fine without you. I didn’t think about you at all. I forgot about you. I didn’t even cry when we broke up, but it messed me up. For some reason, it hurt worse than my last, Philippe, even though HE was my great, epic love. Not you.
Hell, I saw my best friend for the first time in two years and the first thing she told me was, ‘What the hell happened to you? I’ve never seen you like this before.’ She went on to tell me, ‘You used to believe in love like a hopeless romantic, now you’re just cold and heartless.’
I think it’s because you gave me hope. You made me hope. After Philippe, I didn’t think I could find another love. With you? I didn’t know if you were the one, but you made me feel safe. Unlike Philippe, I wasn’t stupid with my emotions. I was careful with you. I did everything right. I made sure my feelings were real. And most of all, I trusted you. That’s why you leaving me was so hard; it was different. It was a hopeful love, an innocent love, a secure love. Not passionate, impulsive, risky love.
I remember the moment I found out I miscarried. I didn’t know we were pregnant and so I kept on partying hard, swimming, surfing. We were in your bedroom and I cried when I told you. I couldn’t stop apologizing. I knew it was my fault. It was a huge bomb to drop after mere months of dating, yet you did the unexpected. You looked at me and said, ‘It’s okay. I’m sure you can have children in the future. If not, we can always adopt. Let’s go get you some help.’
I was taken aback. That was the moment I realized I was in love with you.
When you broke up with me, I didn’t think of you. Not once. Only seeing your friend, Helen, upset me, because it made me remember you for a short while. But then I buried the pain again.
You told me to be apathetic, to date other guys. I did just that. I got with more guys than I have fingers in just two months. I drowned myself in parties, in so many guys, in so many wasted nights that in the end I realized I didn’t recognize myself anymore. Everything was a blur. I got lost in moments of ecstasy, but they always ended as soon as the parties stopped. I guess that’s a big reason why I accepted my uncle’s invitation to live with him in Australia. I’m done breaking myself. I’m done trying to move on from you.
I met a guy. He made me laugh. I didn’t fall in love with him, of course, and we’re not in a relationship – but he made me laugh. It felt good to know that even though my heart was almost as cold as ice like yours is now, it was still possible. Even when I felt hopeless. And that’s enough. He’s Australian, and I became very good friends with his group of friends. I’ve met other tourists who work or live in Australia as well. I don’t think I’ll be alone there.
Then last week you messaged me. I was so shocked, but I wasn’t sad. I recalled the happy memories. The way you’d smile at me when you’d hold my face or that silly way you’d wag your finger at me when warning me not to do something. Your silly French Pierre impression and the sunrises we watched without sleep. When you stopped in the middle of making love with me one night just to look me in the eye and softly say, ‘Hey. I love you.’
Most of all that… look. That smile. You always had this expression on your face when you’d look at me without saying anything. Even when we were just talking on Skype, it was there. Silent and smiling, you’d look at me with such gentle love and affection in your eyes. I was never afraid of anything, of being vulnerable, when you gave me that look. Safe. You made me feel safe.
But a few days after that it changed. I remembered how you looked on your last night. Before you left and Tzah was pissed because you were late for your flight. You looked at me and there was this expression on your face – like you wanted to say something, say goodbye, say you love me one last time. But you couldn’t because you were in a hurry and your friends were there. It was the saddest look you’ve ever given me, and that’s the memory of you I will never ever forget.
I wrote you 24 poems for your 24th birthday. And I wrote you at least one poem every day. I never did that much for Philippe, I think. I wrote to you every day, Peter. I wrote for you, every day. I think when I realized this, that’s when the pang hit my chest. I ached again.
You were supposed to be in love with me. You said you loved me, and we wouldn’t work out because you couldn’t come back like we planned. You mentioned you had no time. Yet shortly after this, you managed to spend a holiday in Hong Kong with friends. I deserved better than that.
I’m glad you’re not smoking anymore. I’m proud of you. I’m glad that you’re living a happy life as well. I still write about you. I’ve been writing about you this entire time, even today. But I don’t need you to read my poetry anymore.
I am being honest and telling you all this because it’s who I am. But do not mistake this letter as a sign of weakness. This is not for your benefit. This time, I’m writing for me. I’m writing to write. I no longer need you to listen.
I don’t expect anything from you. I know you. Your heart is empty, and cold, and apathetic. And you probably never felt a thing those months after we broke up, and I’m sure you don’t care right now. Emotionless and indifferent, as usual. Unfeeling.
It hurts to see you happy without me. You treated me like a stranger. My best friends say you’re an asshole. Yet, I still defend you. I tell them, ‘You were a good person with a kind heart.’ Why? I should stop making excuses for you.
I know, it’s selfish of me doing this, writing this letter. You were always SO MUCH BETTER THAN ME at killing your emotions. How else could you stay silent the entire four months when I spent weeks messaging you without receiving a reply? That’s why I have to do this. Because I’m not as strong as you.
I’m deleting Helen, and Tzah, and Ogie, and everyone else that connects me to you. Because I found out I still love you. And now I know that you didn’t really love me. That it wasn’t real. It hurts. There’s a tiny prick in my chest when I’m reminded of you happy without me in your life at all, and I don’t want to wait until that tiny longing grows bigger.
I’m going to Australia after New Year’s. I’m gonna live there for at least a year, I think. We’ll see. It’s ironic since you broke up with me because you wanted to take that two-year job in Africa and we couldn’t have a future without seeing each other. But now we’re both going to live in the same country in the next few months.
And I’m okay. I’m not hurting as much anymore. I’m not drowning myself in parties to forget you. It’s a little lonely sometimes, most when I remember you, but I’m okay. I’m finding my way back to myself, and I know with a bit more time I’ll be 100% fine again. I’m happy, I’m GREAT actually, and I’m okay.
I’m sorry for any mistakes I’ve made as well. I’m not angry at you anymore. I’m not confused anymore. I’m not bitter about our break up, and I’m not desperate to get you back anymore. I forgive you, and I understand you, and I accept it. I’m finally letting you go.
I’m not going to contact or message you. I’m going to start forgetting you the same way you forgot me.
The world is huge with billions of people in it. We’ll probably never see each other again, so this is my goodbye, Peter. Forever. We’ll never talk to each other again after tonight. I’m permanently out of your life. Perhaps you don’t care anymore, but I needed to send this letter for my own sake.
People say I should act indifferent with you, because letting you know my thoughts and feelings would make me a ‘loser’ in the break up and make me look pathetic. They say I should be brave and show you no emotion whatsoever and just block you right away.
But you know I hate regrets, and I don’t want to regret not saying everything I want to say. Besides, I need to let this all out, one last time, before I go.
Thank you for all the happy and good memories. I’m glad I can look back at them now and also smile, instead of just harboring bitterness. Hey? When you find that girl, that girl you’ll fall in love with for real, I still mean what I said – tell her for me that she’s the luckiest girl in the world. Please take care of her better than you did me.
I wish you all the best.
You’ll be in my heart.”
This story was submitted to Love What Matters by Sade Andria Zabala, author of poetry book “War Songs”. You can follow her journey on Facebook here and Instagram here. Submit your own story here, and be sure to subscribe to our free email newsletter for our best stories.
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