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Dear Valentine

Dear Lover,
do you remember that day in the park? You held my hand, brushing your thumb over my skin. Awkwardly you looked away, your face strained, a frown between your eyes. Then you broke up with me. Such a lovely day to waste on such dirty business.
I'm not vengeful, I took it like the woman I am. The decision was yours, but I felt muted in the way you thought 'It's over' would be your last words to me, mine not heard, not wanted to get heard. So, here are my words now. For you, from me.
I love you. My heart is still full of memories, of good times, of your scent, your feel, your touch. Whenever I close my eyes, there's a sense of you around me. We had met friends together, had laughed, danced, done the dishes together. When I read I get the feeling of you watching me from your favorite chair, but you not there.
You're only there via my thoughts, my feelings, the memories of us I cannot shake. Like a shadow stalking me. Like the taste of that last drop of wine I should have left in the glass. You're stale now. Your un-presence only hurting, or maybe merely hitting me along the face. Others remark on it, too. And I'm left to explain.
He broke up with me, I say. Not we broke up. He broke up with me. I'm so sorry, comes from them, but what their faces say is: why? And I'm not sure what to say. I was getting too fat for him. I was getting too small for him, he was dwarfing me. I wasn't fun enough, anymore. He wanted someone else, someone younger. It's on my tongue to make you look bad.
But what was the reason? The generic 'It's me, not you' doesn't cut it for me, you know. You having to explore yourself. You being not happy with us. I don't understand, because I didn't feel it, because I didn't see you feel it. Were these really your reasons, or were you just too nice to say how it was all my fault? Or that you found your inner asshole who didn't like me much?
I guess it's not important. Or maybe it's just not important, because we're not supposed to talk anymore, because you cut me off with your 'It's over.'
Over. You know what's not over? Your shirts hanging in my closet, two of them, not your favorites obviously. A set of bathroom utensils on the left side of my bathroom sink. The spatula with the broken handle from when you tried to make pancakes. My heart thumping wildly in my chest whenever I think I see you. One time it had been you. You didn't see me and I left the bar. These things are not over.
But I get what you mean with over, because I'm over now wanting you back. I'm over wanting to know whether you're with someone new. I'm even over finding you attractive - you know, that beard merely makes you look really scruffy, kinda worn and shabby. I'm not even being resentful, I'm just being honest. That's what we always swore we would be.
Let me be honest with you one last time: we're gonna see each other at Kim's wedding, she told me you were coming. I'll be there, too. I'm going to bring a date, a nice guy from work who's asked me out for almost a year now. I don't want you to talk to him or me, or us. I don't want to make awkward conversation with you. I don't want you to ask my date how long we've been dating or how close we are. I don't want him to know that we've been together. Let's just pretend we don't know each other at all.
Because I don't have an honesty clause with him. I don't have to tell him about you. I can just ignore his questioning look when people mention you. I will never promise him to be absolutely honest with him, and won't ask him to be either. And I hope that if we ever break up (should our dating become a relationship and breaking up seems necessary at some point) he'll lie to me without ever having promised that he never would. That would be nice.
Thinking about you,
A Secret Admirer

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