Deal with it

Forget me. Imagine you've never met me. Put me in the drawer of your memories—both the good and the bad. It doesn't matter the slightest. Ignore the existence of our story. You won't find anything extraordinary there anyway. See me as if I were a speck of dust. It's not very bad but what is it for? It ruins the landscape.

In fact, no, why put me down in this mishap? Why should I still feel guilty for asking you to erase what connects us? You told me that the two of us " would be forever." I now remain deaf to this form of blackmail. Yes, that's blackmail, Paul. What the hell did you imagine? That you could continue to own my body and soul until the end of time? You are very selfish, let me tell you. Are you only aware of my own desires? No, I am correcting myself—my absence of lust. When you approach me, I see myself as a little girl on a merry-go-round. My mother insisted, but I would die of vertigo. Your triple-digit perfumes can get sniffed through other nostrils.

I do not recognize myself anymore. I am trembling from the lines I have just placed on this innocent sheet. And that poor green pen that had not asked for anything. For first use, there is more pleasant! I did not know my verbs could be that hurtful. I don't want to sadden him, but where can I find the courage to go to the end of my process? How to slip away without ever being caught by the shirt? I don't like my cowardice. I light a cigarette for the first of this morning. Seeing the smoke evaporate in the living room will give me courage. I will imagine that this smoke is me. As sooner out than escaped, as neither seen nor known. An old, untraceable dream that one could simply move in all directions without finding the slightest logic and, exhausted, one would give up. Smoking relaxes me. I don't take an ashtray. I want to see the ashes fly around me, even if it means suffocating. No, I am not suicidal. I'm just horribly lost.

Paul, I haven't finished this letter. I know your sensitivity and how much you like happy endings, but there, I'm sorry, there is only one end here. Nothing more to look forward to.

No, it's too violent. I can not. You can take a ruler to measure distances, centimeters but to measure your own words, what option do you have left? I do not know how to dose. I am that unhappy chemistry student who fills a glass ten times too much and wonders why afterward it explodes right after. I don't know how to find a balance. Last night, I poured half the salt shaker into my pasta—awkwardness coupled with nervousness, no doubt. No, I can't leave it unanswered. I would love to take my suitcases and leave him two or three panties so that he does not feel too abandoned but, if I do not close the door properly to our story, I will not be able to cross the bridge to start a new one. I then look out the window and see couples laughing. They seem to love each other as much as the other. I tell myself that it is rare but beautiful at the same time. I wish it worked so bad. I am 38 years old and have a sentimental resume with as many holes as Swiss cheese that mice would have devoured overnight. My journey is impossible to describe. To keep things simple, there is only one line:

Paul, from September 2014 until now. Functions: Trying to love you and see if we can make it work.

Paul, we have been trying for years, trying hard to think that we could fit. I'm exhausted. I am running out of energy and lack to try. I never made fun of you. Never. I just happen to be the wrong candidate.

I can't find the right words. It's a bit like a letter of resignation, abandonment of post. But, basically, isn't that what I'm about to do? I am leaving. I am running away. I am disappearing. Those words are not familiar to me, but they boost me and give me that spirit that I lack. I cannot go on like this. There is no winner in this game. What does it give him to fall asleep near a chest that imagines other hands than his? He has soft hands. That's undeniable. But he never does the dishes, so nothing surprising here. But can I stay with a man just because he has soft hands? Why should I even bother to stay with him ? I don't like favoritism.

Paul, I have been thinking about what I have to tell you for a long time. Take a seat if you haven't already. A Kleenex, too, given your sensitivity, could be helpful. You will find them in the kitchen near the onions. Paul, I'm sorry. Believe me, I don't like to write this type of letter. My pen must hate me for urging me to tell you this. The sheet must also suffer under the weight of my words. Paul, I am doomed. No, don't worry, I'm not talking about this kind of irrevocable condemnation announced with teary eyes in an oncologist's office. I am doomed to leave you.

I don't want you to think I'm getting a kick out of it. You are perfectly aware of the fact that it's been endless months that I no longer enjoy our life together. Aren't you? Paul, hang on, have a glass of wine if needed. A bottle is stored in the kitchen cupboard. It was not a cheap bottle. Honor it. Paul, are you ready? Can I start? Gosh, I feel like a nurse about to give you an injection. Yes, it will sting, hurt too. Your heart and soul will ache, but like a nurse, I owe you the truth. Her name is Agnès. She's a brunette, loves Swedish literature, takes yoga classes, and introduced me to the definition of a real orgasm.