Hubert
I feel you getting further. It is not fun by any means, but I do see the comedy in it. A few days back I felt you might have been too close, and now I feel like you might be inescapably far away from me. I’ve hurt you, and I don’t even know how this happened.
The moment I approached you for the first time you instantly recognized me, and I only recognized you as a consequence of your salute to me. I think you knew me, but I had no clue of who you were. You then invited me to take a seat. It felt interesting, but I had no expectations. The waiter came our way, you ordered an espresso and I went for an American on the rocks. Not much happened, and now I can only remember our little night for how incredibly forgettable it was. Still, there must’ve been something that kept us coming back to each other, because we did.
We kept seeing each other for a couple of weeks. Every one of those days felt like a whole new game; one of choosing outfits, colognes, conversations, flirtations. It was exciting, the game we played, the peacocks we were, and the facades we put up for each other and, in many ways, to ourselves. We both were aware of this, I am sure, but none of us gave too much conscious thought to the underlying dynamic. It was a dollhouse, but both of us fashioned it better than life.
In retrospect, I must confess, I don’t think I had ever felt as alive in my life as in that moment, and I don’t know if I ever will. It was a wild ride, and it was one we shared, but I cannot stop thinking about how distant we were to each other, and to the reality and authenticity of each other. We lived a lot together, but I still feel that I don’t know you.
We had our troubles early on, and it should’ve been a red flag; it wasn’t. I told myself how much I loved you, and how deeply I felt for you, but it was all fake. Telling myself that I loved you was a way to avoid telling myself I hated being alone. Still, it didn’t help a ton; every day I was with you, I felt so lonely. We came back to each other nonetheless, because at the end of the day, a dinner table for one can often be far more daunting than any beast one could encounter.
You told me you loved me, and I’m sure you were lying, too, but I fear you might not have been aware of your own deception just yet.
The way it hit me, that this was all fake and ill-intended was right between tragic and absurd— as the rest of this relationship. I saw another guy, and I stopped feeling for you. It would’ve marked the second iteration, not enough to tell the cycle, but I connected the dots. I didn’t love him, I had just seen him, but I didn’t love you either. You were just there so that someone would be. We weren’t perfect for each other, we were just lonely for each other.
It hurts, declining your every phone call, calling in sick every other day to avoid you at the office, and, perhaps most importantly, lowering my gaze every time I see your face in my mind. I know this must hurt perhaps a bit more to you, but it might be a necessary harm. I don’t need you and I never did, and the same applies to you. I just need a bit of solitude, far from you, maybe then I could feel less lonely.
I’d have you anytime.
