“You Are The Man Of My Life,” You Said. And I Believed You.
Fifteen years later, you’re still in my heart.
“You are the man of my life,” you said.
It was 15 years ago, and I believed you.
Back then, my life was a storm, and the world was at a turning point.
I remember where we were when you pronounced those words. It was in the flat you were renting in that beautiful historical city, in the UK, where you were studying.
I remember so vividly the expression on your face when you see those words. I can see your big brown eyes filled with genuine love — and concern. You knew the situation wasn’t easy. And, even today, I know that you meant what you said. But that was just a fleeting breeze that gets lost in the hurricane.
A few months later, you were ready to cut me out of your life because of too much suffering and waiting. I expected a detachment, after all my hesitations, but not the extent that you firmly imposed by completely disappearing. You were a significant part of my world, an entire continent, that, out of the blue, was submerged by a colossal flood — and never emerged again.
“You are my love,” we used to tell each other in your native language. A language only 10 million people could speak back then, globally. Today, your country — or shall I say — our country is in a better place than 15 years ago when it was a dictatorship in disguise. A nation, however, that welcomed me, adopted me, and where I still feel at home.
The long letter I sent you on April 30th that year ended with those words: “You are my love.” Of course, in your language. When we first met, I spoke a bit of your tongue, and you spoke a bit of mine, but so often when we were together, I felt that “words were very unnecessary,” as a popular song says. While we were making love, I used to lose myself in the curves and nuances of your body, in the melting of our souls; and the perception of time and space would become blurred.
A few weeks before I wrote that letter, my daughter recognized you on a photo, pointed at you, and said your name out loud. Well, not exactly your name, but the name I used to call you by. She was only two years old back then, and I have always wondered if you could truly understand how my hesitations related to the concern of impacting her life in ways that I wasn’t able to predict. Perhaps by now, you have children too, and you can relate to my feelings a little more. But probably you don’t — you never wanted to have children, and you didn’t think that was ever going to change.
So, I wrote to you: “I hope she will still recognize you when you get back from the UK.” And that was when you said that you’d never want to see me again. I deleted that message immediately, as these were some of the most hurtful words that I have ever read.
That long email was my last attempt to find a breach in your heart: I was hoping to reach the last drop of the love that you used to have for me. But your response was even harder to read, and I didn’t find any trace of love nor compassion in those words. Polite and rational, but cold, dry, and heartbreaking for me to read.
I replied with a short message, trying to share how devastated I felt without trying to blame you, and taking responsibility for my mistakes. You responded, but I never dared to read what you wrote, because I was sure it would have hurt me even more.
For years, thinking about that last exchange of messages, I felt like someone was stabbing my heart from inside as if there was no skin nor ribs to protect it.
Indeed it took me a long time to fully accept your “departure” from my life with a one-way ticket.
Meanwhile, though, I was going through a massive spiritual journey, I recognized and changed my unhealthy habits, I did a lot of inner work, I worked towards my vision.
Since then, beautiful things continued to happen in my life.
I’ve had very satisfying connections. Thanks to what I learned from you, I have grown to become an equal partner in my romantic relationships, having let go of my belief of needing to be the “leader” or someone’s “savior.” I am now a better listener, I communicate more honestly and candidly, and I live authentically. I entered relationships in which I could see the opportunity for “common ground” (as you used to say), shared purpose, and growth.
Life has been very generous to me. Fifteen years later, however, I can say that I never managed to experience the hypes of our intimacy and the depth of those looks in each other’s eyes. I still remember the feeling of having found the person that would love me exactly as I am, someone who seemed to be willing to explore, grow, and transform in unity. That person was you.
But clearly, that wasn’t the right time for us. You still had to see the world, blossom, and let all your qualities unfold and shine. You had to fly. I hope that by now, you also became less judgemental, more compassionate, and humble.
Today, the world is still in turmoil, but now it’s “just” a hurricane, not a global tsunami.
I’m physically in good shape, and I feel peaceful and centered. I still have a lot of passion and drive running through my veins. I keep trying to contribute to making the world a better place.
Today it’s August 14th, 2035, and I’m wondering if you will read this email when you receive it, fifteen years after the last one. Sometimes, a breeze melts and disappears, swept up by a hurricane. Some other times, a butterfly flaps her wings — and you don’t really know what the effect will be.
This letter is my butterfly, and if you read it, I want you to know that even today, You are My Love.
