It seemed like a good idea at the time. For a couple of weeks you have been so frustratingly preoccupied with work. But that’s not much of an excuse for you flaking on our dates and ‘forgetting’ to return my calls and it was an even more pathetic excuse for what I did, or else what I let a strange English guy convince me to do. We both had finally plucked up the courage to end our very vague relationship recently, the greater part of it resembling nothing more than a game of “relationship chicken”. Now, we are out of each other’s lives and frankly, I could not feel any more relieved. But it doesn’t stop the guilt and shame from raining on my otherwise celebratory single-once-again parade. I know I owe you a confession and an apology, even if I’m technically off the hook. You were kind of a jerk at times but I was too. I made a complete asshole decision with the full intention of hurting you and nothing excuses that.
I was relatively intoxicated and giggly, trying to talk over the loud music as I exchanged witty banter with a very good-looking guy with a very heavy English accent. He was quite the charmer. Or maybe it was just the tequila. Either way I was flattered by the attention I was getting and the next thing I know he was trying to kiss me. I let him. I even kissed back a little bit. To make this long story short, I invited him back to my place with you in the periphery of my thoughts and my hands in his.
We didn’t have sex. It’s not because we didn’t try, mind you. But too much alcohol rendered the equipment inoperable. Still, we ended up doing each other a few favours. Soon my room grew steadily brighter and as the day filtered in through the curtains, I realized how much fun I was having talking and laughing and kissing and cuddling with this stranger. We talked so much that I even started slipping and imitating his accent. We laughed a lot. He said I was funny and I remembered you saying otherwise. The smell of him drowned out the guilty thoughts of you and his kisses made me forget about you altogether…but only for a little while.
I went out with you the next day because I’m an asshole. I held your hands and kissed you without so much as blinking or even flinching because I am incredibly good at being an asshole. My stomach dropped and my skin crawled with shame but on I went with dating you for a couple of more days because I am too much of an asshole to actually own up to my fault and I was too much of a coward to see the disgust on your face when I eventually tell you. I’m sorry.
I’m also sorry for telling you I loved you. Because I lied.
This is why I am convinced that you are much better off without me. I am saving you from an enormous amount of hurt I could inflict both on your feelings and your ego. Trust me; you are no longer the bad guy here. I am sorry for getting back on you by cheating. It wasn’t very classy of me, I know. I should have just ended things when I stopped being happy and started feeling like I was putting more on the table than you did. I got the bad end of the bargain to the extent of your knowledge but in truth you did. But I didn’t tell you and I won’t tell you. I will go on making you feel like you’re a jerk because, well, I’m an asshole.