To my boyfriend of seven years who ghosted me in December,
You were right to call yourself a coward in that message you sent in late December. Only a coward could end a seven-year relationship with 160 characters.
You were wrong when you said I had your soul and you had mine. You have no right to hold hostage over my soul when you knew very well you were never returning home. No part of you deserves the immortal part of my being and the spirit that embodies me.
I slept with you in January. I thought it meant something to you too. I thought we were on track to rebuilding what we lost to that argument in December.
“This isn’t the end, so we shouldn’t treat it that way” were your parting words as I redressed.
And so if that wasn’t the end, where have you been? Seven years, a combined soul, infinite memories, and a physical connection that knew no boundaries.
I’ve not bombarded you with messages, but I have offered some really simple ‘hellos’—ones that if you were feeling any ounce of doubt or embarrassment were really easy opportunities to send a simple reply.
Instead you’ve left me ghosted.
It must be incredibly tiring feeling like you’re constantly on the run. From friends. From family. From me.
“It’s his attachment style getting in the way. He is an avoidant.” These are the sentiments I get from strangers. I get it—but I’d like to think after seven years you felt comfortable enough to give me a proper explanation. At the very least, a better goodbye.
“We can put this down to mental health, but I really struggle to believe that. If he really loved you, he would get the help he needed to live this life with you,” is the response your father gave me.
Blow by blow.
This pain is akin to mourning death, but you are still very much alive, and I am left with no closure. I’ve spent six months on hold, resorting to cheap bottles of wine and sleeping aids that allow me to sleep heavily and not dream of you. The nightmare of losing you haunts me enough when I am awake. I’ve lost a handful of friends, my job flat-lined, my body has become skin and bones. I’ve fought with family, retreated to isolation, forgotten how to laugh, and struggled to smile. I’ve spent the last six weeks in therapy trying to figure out what the fuck has happened.
I doubt this letter will reach you, but in the hope that it does, I beg you, please stop haunting me. Stop exacerbating my grief. Let me have my peace.
Let me have my closure.