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a bittersweet ending

The writer in me says keep them in your life. It makes for a beautiful story. The friend in me tells you to let them go. Give yourself a chance to heal. Give yourself a chance to move on. 

Don’t listen to the writer. Listen to the friend. 

You fall in love with a boy who can’t pronounce your last name. Who never asks if you’re okay. Who kisses too hard and without permission. You mistake it for passion.

Ten days before Christmas he takes his passion too far. Throws it against the window; smashing glass as he goes. When he’s done, he leaves you to pick up the shards with your shaky hands. Then, he insists on driving you to the train station. You just try not to cry.

By Spring, the window has been replaced by double glazing. You never do tell your friends why. They still refer to him as the charming one. You prefer not to describe the blood on his hands.

You wonder about charm, passion and violence. Are they really so inextricably linked?

Is violence passion? You think. Is it just another word for love?

No. No. No. You’re sure of it now.

Why did you ever think it was?

You won’t know it’s the last time, of course. You rarely do.

Later, when thinking back to it, you’ll try to remember whether they lingered for just a moment before they broke away. You’ll try to remember the placement of their hands.

Much later still, you’ll become stuck on the memory of how you met. How you fell in love with their mind. How they surprised you. How they challenged you to become a better person.

You’ll spend Friday evenings trying to disentangle them from your psyche. Like finding an endless array of their socks at the bottom of your drawer. Wishing they would disappear yet being unable to throw them out.

On bad nights, you want to scream. How could you? Of all the people in the world, you were supposed to stay. Out of all the temporality, all that transience - you were meant to be the exception.

You think about calling them, if only to receive a reminder of their voice on the answerphone. You almost do, but something stops you. You remember a poem you read a long time ago. It went something like - 

People are impermanent. The love of your life will leave you. On a Sunday morning, they’ll kiss you for the last time.

Read the full article here: 

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