You’re clever, so I will never send you this letter. I expect you to derive everything I’ve written here from our conversations, and from things I’ve merely implied.
You fall out of love because the more you learn, the more reality diverges from your idealisations. So see me. Really see me, and not just the me you imagined because I’m beautiful. It isn’t what I want. If that is why you like me, then stop.
I find reasons. I am an expert. I hold on to any hint of something illogical or nonsensical or upsetting about you that I can use to make myself stop. Doing so makes me feel like I’m in control of something I am terrified of. Of feeling something and losing myself in it. Of feeling something and being torn to shreds when it doesn’t last. Of feeling anything at all. Because it’s just too easy. It’s easy for me to feel. It takes discipline to think until I’m steady again. Until I’m not falling. But I’ve practiced a long time, so I think I’m quite good. It’s second nature now. I’ve nearly convinced myself of my own invincibility. Do not, do not, try my defenses. Won’t work.
Almost all of our days together have caused an internal battle. I had to remind myself that you’re a monster. That you’re a hunter. The very worst kind, who easily fells prey then leaves it to rot, prancing after the next kill. That you’re recklessly trying to drown in any semblance of a feeling you can muster because you can barely feel things at all. There’s nothing that extinguishes your desire faster than getting what you want. Because, in essence, what you live for is the exquisite split second before winning, but that is all you want.
Forget it. You’ll never catch me. I suspect that will make you hunt me, want me, dream of me forever. Don’t. Just see me, really see me and all those thoughts will die. I’m not as flawless as you’ve imagined. Boring, stubborn, grumpy, never satisfied, sarcastic, jealous, demanding and dominant. Let your image of me fade. I’ve already told you, encore et toujours, in every possible way that I can’t love. Especially not… Especially not you. No. You know I don’t believe in it like you do — you’re a zealot and you give long speeches. I have seen too much to believe. So let go of your misguided wish to be closer to me in every way. Tell your foolish heart to be quiet. Then we can be friends — really just friends — and learn so much more from each other.
Now that I’ve told you twice, and if you count this time, three times (oh, probably more), I will proceed to ignore you until I think you’ve understood and stopped loving me, you silly child.
(Disclaimer: This is part of the letter series)