Did it ever occur to you that maybe this is the real me? You don´t even look at me, do you? And when you do decide to glance my way, what you see is a bizarre version of me. Someone I´m not, someone I don´t want to be.
Why are you still with me? You don´t love me? You don´t understand me? You don´t even want me….
Yet, you won´t set me free. So the only way I can be free of you, is if I leave.
Good Bye Jonathan, I am gone now, for good.
Don´t look for me. I don´t need you and you don´t need me.
Once upon a time, with love
And just like that, she had left him. Now he was all alone in the world. Did she really think he had never loved her? He would have moved mountains for her, he would sing her favorite songs, just because he asked her too… Now how did she believe he could live without her?
Maybe he had, in fact, been blind. He should have paid more attention, listened more. But he always thought that she knew he was a bit oblivious to everything around him.
Jonathan left the open letter over the kitchen table. Then now empty house felt cold, the kitchen had lost its liveliness, its color. The sound of the television seemed to usurp the silence. She had taken her favorite flower with her, it made sense for she could not live without pink roses.
One by one, he closed the windows, the lights on the street seemed to hunt him. “Could she be hiding there - somewhere in the shadows? No, she´d be long gone, by now”. The last stream of light coming from outside was now gone, television off, lights down, he was surrounded by darkness.
What had made her leave? He wondered… What had he done? What had they done? He wished there had been warning,… But there had been, so many warnings, he was the one that had been blind, blind to all, blind to her, blind to the sadness that filled their hearts. He needs her, he had always needed her, but he had never shown her just how much, he had never been there when she needed him. So perhaps it had been his fault, perhaps it had been their fault.
Seating on her favorite spot, by the sofa, he noticed the emptied bookshelves, no more woman authors organized by last name, no more pink markers or flowery arrangements. He had complained about them, now they were so normal to him, he missed them dearly. For she was him, and he was her, and everything he like she liked, even if she didn´t; and he liked everything she like, even if he didn´t. This is how they were.
But now she was gone, and he could not understand why… and he had to let her go.