The business of missing you

He writes, “MIss you. Miss ya. Miss you. Miss ya.” 

Not my problem that you should part the moment we met. Not my problem that you leave me when we just started to get to know one another. Not my problem that you found me, surprisingly easy to get along with, emotionally distant but kind and generous. 

I’m lonely. The more I’m out there, meeting people, meeting you, the lonelier I get. Nothing can cure me. I’m not alone, but I’m lonely. 

He sends her pictures of his travel. He claims that he’s making snow. In the chateau. In Paris. In the haute alps. He speaks French. He signs his letter bises. He calls her by her nick name. But he signs his own name in its entirety, though she’s given him a short name as well. Super Snowman. The superhero who is good at making snow. Who made snow everywhere for everyone who loved snow. Like she.

I’m terribly lonely. I want to be held. To curl up next to you, anyone, really, to have my hands be held, my face be kissed. To be told that I mattered. To have people make time for me. To give me the attention I desperately seek. To tell me that everything will be okay. To love me as I deserve to be loved. To stop abandoning me. 

I don’t believe you understand me. I don’t believe in going back. I shut that door a long time ago. I closed me up. A part of me needs to die. That girl who had all the faith in the world, that girl who wanted her lover to love her back, to give her an alternate future, the lover who would not disappoint her, does not exist, the lover who could actually be there for her. The lover who could wake up next to her and buy her a simple brunch, on a Saturday. That lover who supposed to be there, was never there for her. That was the old me.

He wants to return home. He tells her that he’s headed to Prague. He’s leaving Paris and headed to Eastern Europe. He misses her and wants to be home. So that he could see her again. The day he was leaving, he sent her messages at the airport, on the plane, and told her that he missed her. The entire trip, he’s been telling her how much she is missed. He has no idea how this relationship will evolve but he wants her to be his. That evening she poses for photos. He grabs her and kissed her without warning. He wants her because she’s beautiful. She’s stunningly beautiful. She is no longer young but she looked like she could be still in her twenties. He liked that about her. The youthful look, the way she laughed like she’s never laughed before, the silliness of her laughter that carried and made his house shake, and then when he asked her what happened to you, why don’t you want to have a real relationship? She says, with much difficulty, “I don’t believe that I deserve to be loved.” There you have it. He thought to himself. “I knew why she is the way she is. She’s so afraid of being hurt. There is a mask she’s wearing. I want her to be vulnerable like the rest of us. I want her to come out of her shell. I want to get to know her.” 

He writes to tell her that he wants to return home so that he could see her again.

I don’t know who I am. I have let go of part of me. I wanted to cry all the time. Then when I let go, when I buried her, I stopped crying. If heart break is like this, may this be the last one. I’m done breaking. I shall amend.