If I never see you again

Our love letter are filled with such raw feelings, it's insane. People need to fall in love with the story.


1. First letter

There’s such a small difference between a beautiful lie and an unwillingly spoken truth. It’s hard to be objective and do the right, lawful, thing and just spit out the story, in the same way in which I’d normally spit out my half-drunken rants about everything which isn’t as it’s supposed to be, which doesn’t work in the way it should do. And I want to do it, I wish I could be honest from the beginning to the end, but I can’t. If I were to be completely honest, I wouldn’t say that I can’t do it because I was gifted by a really perverted God with a sick talent for storytelling, with the power of making everything beautiful and that I must use white lies, in order to make writing this time-worthy. Not quite. I cannot be 100% accurate, because then, I would have to admit a really ugly truth. I would have to admit that the story I’m trying to write, met its end, at one point during this hectic survival which I call life. And admitting its end, automatically breaks me. And it makes my attempt of writing a true story seem futile.  But, as the hero of this story might say, “what can you do?”

I want to clarify something from the very beginning. This is not a love story. And, even if it were, it wouldn’t be a happy story. It is not even bittersweet. You won’t be able to find this, in the chick-lit section and read it idly, while you’re waiting for the bus. You won’t call your boyfriend afterwards and invite him over, because you cooked his favorite meal. The only thing left for you to do, would be to stare into a wall and wonder why people are so incredibly stupid and unaware of their destinies. You won’t be able to look at your significant other in the same way in which you looked before. You will soon find out, my dear, that life is not a field of daisies. Life is not even a field. It’s a mountain. It is an incredibly hard mountain to hike on. I, for one, failed. And I never took my failings for granted, I blamed myself for everything, just like I take this failure: it’s all on me.

Now, let me take you down a stroll, all the way back the beginning.

I don’t know how it all began.

Maybe it began with my first love, a hardcore drummer which disappointed me so much in the end, in which I literally wanted to see him dead. Or I just wanted to kill all my love for him. I’m too afraid to walk down memory lane, to see what’s in store for me. But, the one thing I’m sure of is that he made me believe that even God must have green eyes.  Otherwise, would the color green exist?

Maybe it all begins with my spoiled upbringing, or the fact that I never really had any friends, so I had to take solace in books and in imaginary tales.

Or, it might be the fact that I failed Geography a couple of times, so I was determined to travel as much as I could, in order to pass it for once.

It’s such a fucked-up feeling, being able to watch the outcome of random occurrences, knowing that you are unable to change things. If you are familiar with the butterfly effect theory, you’ll know what I mean. I met the one that got away in a random country, which I never thought I’ll ever visit. I went to that country, because I signed up for a youth exchange program. I signed up for that, because I was bored. I was bored, because I was waiting for my roommate, to let me inside the dorm room. Because I’d forgotten my keys. Because I spent the night someplace else. If I knew… of course I’d do it all again.

I’ve always asked a lot from people I love. Or, better said, I ask a lot from people who claim to love me. I tell myself that I do it because it’s so hard for me to open up. I tell myself that if they took the chance to love me, they need to prove themselves worthy of knowing me and receiving my love and acceptance in return. I know that I am a narcissistic little fuck and I never plan on changing it. Because I am the selfish hero of my own story, the antagonist which you can’t hate, no matter how much you try. I’m always explaining this weird need of being offered a lot, while asking for little in return, by saying that we all have our own shit to go through, our own demons, if you want. And we should all be cut some slack. Even though, when I do it, I pass as a cold-hearted bitch, who doesn’t care, and who will never lift a finger to help you. But I, like all of you, can see things subjectively and explain my actions, with my logic and senses. Even if you will never understand me, I will always understand myself. And also, I will hate myself with the power of a thousand suns.  Because yes, I hate myself so much for my choices and my actions, but the only thing I can do now, is try to redeem myself. For going back, and doing things differently, it’s not an option for me.


Once upon a time, in a far distant universe, I was much less cynic and much more loveable. I wasn’t mean. I wanted to help this wounded society to get back on its feet, to be the doctor that saves the day. I walked and drove and took the train, and hitchhiked and took a train again, to find myself in s foreign land, with no friends, no family, and no people to impress. Little did I know that I would find friends and family and people to impress in that weird, attractive, scary country.  Little did I know that I would find him. Hidden in the shadows of a low-walked alley, hipped after playing the drums for two hours in a live gig, wanting to have fun and see his friends. Little did he know, that his friends adopted me as one of their own, and that he’d meet me and find me more beautiful than I ever dreamt of being found.

They say it’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt, but we never believed that. You know why? It was because we were, in the truest sense of the word, gods. We were literally, supreme beings which could control time and space and use them for our own fun. And, oh, how we took advantage of it. One time, I made a week become a day. And in return, he took a couple of minutes and stretched them into a couple of years. And, oh, how time took its revenge on us, just when we thought he was ours… but, I’ll get there soon.

We climbed our way to the highest point reachable in that strange city. I asked the real questions, while he gave me the blunt, brutally honest answers. I wanted to play so much, I fell down a rabbit hole, in both physically and euphemistically sense of the word. I was so tricked, while feeling like I had the upper hand.

“Close your eyes, you have an eyelash”, he said. But instead of him, brushing his hand on my cheek, there were his lips, pressed hard against mine. And later on, he gave me one of those kisses, which tangled my memories and made me lose myself into a pitch dark world. This happened so many years ago, but I can still feel the hunger, the passion, the anger, I can still see those lights in his eyes. Have you ever watched the sky during a thunder storm? Then you know what I mean. Clear, beautiful dark eyes, with strikes of his soul, bursting out from the debts of him, pouring into me, like I was the receiver of everything he had to offer.

It’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt – we laughed about it, while still playing the cat and mouse game, while still controlling the distance, making it shorter and longer, depending on our own wishes.

But, at one point, time and distance rebelled against us. We actually saw how far we were one from each other.  And how time went faster when we were next to each other, and slower when we knew we going to see each other again in a couple of days.

It’s all fun and games – I was laughing about it, while I was begging him not to go. He came to my country, after I long left his. We drank a little too much, but not enough, we danced a little more and here we were, the sunrise above us and me, repeating “don’t go”. As if I could change anything. I was no longer a Goddess, he was no longer a God – well, he was My God. It was our second goodbye, there were going to be a couple more. But we didn’t know. We never knew. And there I was, begging him to stay. I just had my first honest moment with him, telling him that I didn’t want to play anymore. I wanted him, the real him, just mine, just for me. I was so afraid, each moment spent in his presence made me more infatuated with him. Him. I can still feel his perfume, while he was explaining, in the most rational way he could, that he had to go. Just like I can still hear his voice when, one year later, we had our final goodbye at the train station and he was telling me how much he loved me. Over and over and over again.

It was no longer fun, there were no longer games. There was me, in the bus, going home, naked without him. With an unexplainable coldness, rapidly filling my chest. There was just my small outburst, written while trying not to cry.

(Before reading this, please play between the bars, from Elliot Smith)

I would begin with “I miss him”, but I’m afraid it has already become a cliché, since each time we pretend to talk (because typing is not real conversation, just as Gatsby is not just another philanthropist), I use “I miss you” as a hello, a punctuation mark and a good bye. But it’s nothing but the naked truth, and lately it has become the only stable thing which is in my mind, when I try picturing his face or hearing him yelling...(side-note: if someone came to me and assured me that if I only had to say these three words for the rest of my life, not being allowed to utter anything else, that by giving up all the words in all the languages I’d have that forever-like moment with him again, I’d make the trade without hesitating for a single second). So, I’m trying to find words for him, so that he’ll get an idea around how I am feeling, but the words won’t come up. They’re either hidden somewhere inside me, or they don’t even exist. Which is fine, who said one must have a word for anything, anyhow?

So familiar, even though I’ll never understand his thoughts, so “mine”, mostly because this will never be true, so easy, nevermind me being petrified by him, so simple to make me smile, ignore the bridge collapsing under my feet, so curious about that something, that untouchable something, which always slips though my fingers, like sand, salt and water., my seaside from the summer without the sea...something inside him that makes me melt, .burn, that takes me from angry to happy in a matter of seconds, or that simply makes me go all blank, blunt and silent. Like the element of surprise, like a friend from another life, like two trains that once passed one by another, when going to opposite directions and met just for one moment...like going barefoot through snow and not feeling cold, like a girl that believes in fairy tales, like a moment of warmth in a cold, dark, long, winter, like a traveler that passes un-bothered through my everything... “


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