Love letter # 66

In the end, it was too much. There was not a single cause, rather an accumulation, an erosion. Perhaps it was merely the result of growing up and apart. Or maybe we got off on the wrong foot, dazzled by lust, sold on the romantic ideal. Reality, it would now appear, showed us for who we are.

To be fair, I should rephrase that. Gradually, over a thousand bumps, you saw the shine come off of me. You understood that the lustre was surface. It was courting behaviour, prideful promise. After that, mixed signals, a blend of raw hope and easy habit. Ultimately, little more than the fear of breaking up.

Sad? Inevitable? Or was there too much left undone, unsaid? Have we just repeated the arc of yet another corny trope; the one where love turns to rust, adventure to dormitory? All of the above, I suspect. And other things we did not register.

Apologies. Too many to list here. Instead, all I have is a well of thanks, and another, of contrition. Neither of us lived up to the other’s expectations. Both of us are bruised, exhausted. But at least we no longer need to pretend. I think we are both now quietly relieved.

You see…we did well in the end.