Chapter Text
Dear, John.
You’re away. You left to work this morning while I was in bed. You thought I was sleeping but I wasn’t. I was watching you all the way. Your sleepy eyes, your fingers buttoning your shirt. That sound you make when you look for your socks under the bed. The v shape of your hair at the base of your nape. The warm print you left in the bed.
You tried to be quiet. For me.
Today is a bad day. One of those days when I don’t know why, but I feel something is just off. As if the furniture had been rearranged while sleeping and you just keep bumping into everything. I feel sad. Just because. And I wish you were here to tell me it’s ok. But you’re not. You’re away.
It’s not your fault, of course. I´m not blaming you. I know it’s something inside of me.
You asked last night if I was fine. With that soft voice you use when you think I feel bad, which I love. But for some reason that tone made me feel irritated and I pushed you away. I don’t know why I’m like this. I would have liked to feel your embrace instead. To crawl into your lap and let myself be cared for. But I couldn’t. I felt angry with myself for letting you see me like this, like a broken thing you feel sorry about.
Perhaps I’m just not built to be loved.
In the past, this day would be a dangerous one. It’s nothing new. It 's just me. The way I am. In the past days I just would have already hurt myself in some way. Just because. And then go through the day feeling off and sore, angry with the people around, growling, biting. Like the wounded animal I was. Now I’m trying. But I guess I still can bite and growl, and be this pitiful attempt of human being you live with.
Sometimes I feel I'm stealing your life.
I still don't feel I deserve you. I still feel I should be able to solve this shit by myself, not burdening you (or anyone) with my thoughts. I still feel I deserve pain and solitude. I have hurt you so many times in so many ways moved by this feeling. But after all these years you come back to me every day, and you leave a cup of tea by the side of the bed before you leave the flat, and a note on the fridge reminding me to eat.
I don’t like myself. Especially not like this. And the voice telling me I’m not meant to be cared about is loud. It knows so many merciless words collected by the years, so many faces. I do believe them. I have believed them for so many years. I ask myself how can I be such a fool letting you waste your precious time, your amazing light, in a dark room. With me.
But the thing is, John, that it doesn’t matter if I’m not built to be loved. I don’t have the will to let you go or to leave. I have this need to exist around what we are. Because I may not be enough, but I know, and that’s my only certainty, when we are together we are something else. We. The both of us. What an amazing thing to say, what a wonderful belief to actually have faith in. I just know together we are so much more than two.
And John, let me tell you I am trying to be something else by myself, because you deserve it. I am trying to open the curtain, to let the light get in my mind. I am dusting the corridors in the palace and clearing the older rooms, making more space for the thought of you. I still try to let your voice get in. That voice that led me to a place I didn’t know existed, with rainy mornings between your legs, peaceful Sundays by the fireplace, bare smiles when I play the violin. Lots of beautiful music in every corner of our flat. In every corner of our life.
Still, there are some days, like today, when I am not enough to do that job. When I can barely stand on my feet without breaking down. When I can barely talk or move. When all I can do is be swallowed by my thoughts, dragged to the bottom of the palace where the monsters I am dwell. And on those days I know, I am convinced, I simply should not be by your side. Hurting you again.
Why, John? Why do you keep trying even when I push so hard to be alone? Why do you keep bringing home Thai takeaway and milk for dinner? Why do you keep humming the melodies of my violin in the silence of the morning? Why do you keep tracing the map of every scar in my body like it could lead you to a precious treasure? How can you look at me with your warm eyes like if I was something brighter and actually valuable when I am, well, this? How can you kiss me and sleep by my side knowing who I am. Because John, I am not that stupid, you truly know who I really am. But you, John, you’re still here. Every night, every morning. Why? How? That majestic miracle is a puzzle I can not solve.
But thank you, I guess. I am sorry, John. Please touch my hand, take me into your arms, help me to dissipate this fog. Keep me right a bit more. Just some more steps so I can come back to you, like I always do. Like you always help me do. Just one more time, talk to me in that light voice and ask me what you can do to help. Give me the chance to tell you how you are saving me right now, while I write this letter holding on to the thought of the heat of your hand on my shoulder, tapping to tell me you are back home once again.
I am trying, I swear. Perhaps I am not built to be loved. But with some luck I can re-build myself to be loved only by you.
Forever, yours.
S.H.