The Letter I Owe You.

She remembered the first time they fought. Not even a year together, but she fought like a rabid animal who was struggling to survive. Blinded by hot tears, indecipherable curses chattering teeth, choking down air in between screams. Her fists attacked him with such strength that he had to grip onto her wrists and shout at her to stop in between his own ashamed sobs. He knew he was wrong, but he was a bad person then, and chose to lie to cover up what he had done wrong.

She remembered the days that came after The First Fight. Daily lilies, milkshakes, turkey sandwiches, some of her favourite things. Her materialism and young heart betrayed her and led her straight back into his arms. She wished she could have warned herself of what was waiting for her in 4 months time and the year of fighting that would follow after.

Exactly 2 years and 3 months later, she realizes that she hasn't spoken to him in eleven days, a new record. It was clear to her that he had given up, too. Maybe it was because he was sorry, and knew that she deserved better. Or maybe he realized how serious she was when she said she was done. She liked to think that it was because of her ... but he probably just grew tired himself, and didn't want to drag it on. She wondered if he was happier now, with the freedom to do what he likes and not hurt anyone.

She refused to reminisce more about the pain and thought of all the reasons how she knew she had done the right thing by saying goodbye, finally. There were no flowers outside her door this time, no more flood of apologetic messages and phone calls, or little gifts as there had so abundantly been in the past. Not even an attempt to say sorry. Just silence. And although she wanted to see him fight for it, she also liked how easy he was making it for her to realize she had made the right decision.

Yes, she missed him. But all good things come to and end, especially when they're corrupted by mishandled trust. She didn't want to be mad at him even though he hurt her terribly countless times, but she thought of all the things she still had yet to say to him. L'esprit de l'escalier, the French called it. How she would tell him how stupid she felt for letting him treat her like that so many times. How disappointed she was that he promised to change but still did the things he used to. How scared she was that she wouldn't be able to get over him and move on. How angry she was at him for making her feel like she was never enough. And how much she still loved him. How they had 1130 days together. How the past 365 were the best days of her life.

It wasn't all because of him, she admitted to herself. She caught herself looking outside the car window more times than actually talking to him as they drove through the city. She caught herself asking him for more and more favours, until she just expected him to be there for her, waiting for orders. She caught herself thinking "is there even a future here?" while he spoke he to her. And worst of all, she felt so many urges to ask "What are you doing with your life?"

She thought about writing everything down in a message to send him. Make him realize what he's done, make him feel the gravity of his actions, but the words just wouldn't make sense on that little digital screen. She must have composed at least 30 different messages to write him, but none of them made sense. None of them held even a fraction of the feeling she was trying to convey. So instead of sending him that long message where she would declare all her feelings, she composed a much simpler one, instead.

"How are you?"

After all, they hadn't talked for eleven days.