So, it’s all over with him.

 

It hurts, more than anything has ever hurt before, but it’s done – and I’m relieved that I no longer have to dread the email or text which tells me we’re finished.

 

My sister wrote a poem on my behalf. I remember parts of it – the parts which said how I’d discovered a bag of my stuff at the top of your stairs – all of my stuff in one bag, and it hit me how quickly our relationship could be compacted and sorted and discarded. I thought I was all over your flat – all over your life,  but one carrier bag and I’m gone. She said ‘you were just a little bit mine’. You were. I felt like we were eachothers, I felt you were mine, your beautiful kisses and touches and love was mine – I don’t know why we’re finished. You said you love me still and had things been different we’d have stayed together.

 

Today was good, I didn’t cry until getting out of work at 20.30. It’s Thursday today, you ended us on Monday morning. Monday and Tuesday were a hazy blur of tears and tissues and pain and sickness. Yesterday and today have been better.

 

It’s the night times which hurt like fuck. It’s when I close my eyes and remember you so fiercely that I expect you to have appeared when I open my eyes. I can feel you behind me, laying naked against me, snuggled into my warmth, sharing breaths and sleep and dreams. I can smell you, and hear you whispering ‘sweet dreams darling’. And then I open my eyes and there’s just tears and pain and darkness. You’d snuggle around me – I’d feel totally encased by your beautiful skin, and you’d tell me my skin was soft and I smelt good and you loved me and ‘yum, so cosy’, and now we’re never going to do that again. Are you really happy with that? After only three days of not being with you it’d now be totally inappropriate to grab your bum and ‘mmm’ into your ear, or rest my head on your shoulder, or slip my cold hands onto your back to keep warm, and yet four days ago all of that was allowed- it was all so delicious and amazing. And now you’re gone, we’re gone.  It’s like we’re just strangers now. I’m thinking about when I have to meet you to talk, I’m thinking about what I wear, or what I say; four days ago none of that would have mattered. It’s as if I don’t know you anymore.

 

I remember this feeling so well – it’s so terrifying – I’ve not felt it in years, that terrible effort to exist – to feel conscious of every tiny word or breath. Just a constant sadness, dread, a constant feeling of general inability. And I know it’ll go away. I know I’ll move on and meet more people and fuck more people. I’ll allow more people to hold me and kiss me and hurt me. But at the moment I don’t want any of that. I can’t think about new people, I can only think about you – and us – and everything we had.

 

I think of the last time we had sex – the five minute mad quickie before I went to work, afterwards we joked in the car about stamina. I think of the last time I slept beside you – we’d been out for dinner, and then for drinks in the bar where we had our first date, we went home, lay naked together. You told me you loved me.

 

I looked around on the tube today, on the station platform, on the street, at the bus stop – everyone looked so entirely inferior – so unfriendly and strange and unfamiliar, so entirely uninviting. I just wanted them all to be you. I wanted them to be you.

 

I want this all to be in the past, it hurts too much now. I want to be able to think of you as my ex – to not feel this throbbing in my chest and my eyes and my stomach – to not cry and shake when I smell your smell or hear your voice or see a reminder of you in another person.

 

I want this all over, it hurts too much.

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