I just do not love you. I am so sorry. I did not mean to hurt you. I cannot pretend anymore. It is not fair to either of us.
You monster. Get out. Leave. I hate you.
He was not a monster. I knew it. The unbearable truth was that he did not love me.
I did not hate him. I loved him.
I grieved for him. For a long time, the tears would appear without warning. I wondered if the heaviness I felt would go on until I died.
My best friend referred to him as the monster. I let her.
I went over and over in my mind analyzing the three years I shared with him, and wondered what went wrong. The crushing explanation was always the same. He did not love me.
So simple. Yet so heartbreaking.
Years later, when I did meet someone else, I was surprised at my feelings. Ever so careful, yet finding myself eager and happy to be with him. He was aware of my previous lost love. He listened.
My new lover gave me space when I heard that the monster had died on a bicycle tour in the Alps. I needed to grieve that loss again, remembering that we had planned an Alps biking trip.
How the years have gone by, and now I will be the monster.
I love so much about this man. Yet, I do not love him. I did once. I thought it was love.
I think back to the words that shattered me.
I do not love you. I am so sorry. How difficult it must have been to say those words to me.
This evening, I will be the monster.