Dear S,

Why did it have to end? For the first time in my life, I felt loved. You know how difficult my childhood was, how I needed to prove to other people my existence, how I struggled at knowing what actually love is. And then you came, and I was happy. You made me happy. I thought you were here to stay.

I was worried you can’t accept me for who I am, that I was quite not appropriate for your standards, for the life that you have, for the places you’ve been to, for the wealth you’ve accumulated. But then I told myself maybe you were not that kind of person. That our love was real and that it goes beyond cultures and classes. But I was wrong. You were not ready to love someone like me. You were not ready to understand and accept it.

I’d like to believe that everything I felt was a lie. That our love was not real. That you never loved me. After all, you never said the words. But I believed you did not have to because you showed me how pure your intentions were. Maybe it was a lie, it was an illusion. We were separated by miles and all we ever talked about were the good things. We never really had the chance to see other in a more profound way.

I’d like to believe that it was my fault. That my insecurity was baseless. That it was never your intention to make me feel not enough or smaller. That you were ready to accept me for who I am and who I am becoming. But I would lie to myself if I would say that. Because you never fought for me. You let me go like a light feather on your hand that did not really mean so much at all.

All my life, I wonder why people don’t fight for me. If I don’t deserve it, if I am not worth fighting for. At night, I still think about you and think about the future that we could have built together, or the future that I destroyed for us.

But you know what, it would be wrong to assume all the responsibility in what happened. You were an asshole, an asshole disguised as a nice guy. And for that, fuck you. I am getting over you.