I started writing this on the anniversary of the day I met you, two years ago, at the Bar des Aiglons on rue Rambuteau in Paris. I don’t know when, or if, I will ever send it. I intend it to be my last letter to you – I think it’s best for me to try to stop thinking about you – I wish I could – and certainly it’s best to stop trying to communicate with you – I have tried to stop! – since you have chosen not to be in touch with me any more.
I wish I knew why. I wish I knew if I’d done something to offend you, or if you just moved on. It should have been clear to me from the minute I arrived back in the
But it wasn’t clear – I didn’t know. I have been stuck for so many months: stuck because of how much you seemed to like and care for me; stuck because you told me early on that you were a loyal friend. Stuck because one of the most recent genuine conversations we had (last JULY – over six months ago) you told me you considered me a dear friend. Loyal, dear friends reply to emails, say hello once in a while. (Yes I got your New Year’s greeting – honestly I couldn’t understand why you even sent it.) It’s been devastating – I have been so very very sad, missed you so much. I’ve gotten on with my life – I’ve worked on my marriage, my body and health, my work. I’m happier now than I’ve been in a long time.
You oversimplified, though, when you said that my feelings for you were just a symptom of my unhappiness with my life. That may have been where it started, but the feelings were real, and our relationship was real. The connection/interest/affection – yes, maybe even attraction – was mutual, at least for a while. I get it – I understand that feelings change, things end, and that one must just accept it and try to move forward. But it doesn’t matter if my feelings are the world’s most giant cliché – who cares? I still think you could have done me the courtesy of saying “good bye.”
I will post this to my blog instead of sending it – if I ever do send it, it will have to be without that last paragraph, or most of it.
