I never bothered to type the space in your name because that was how I always pronounced it. All of it. Together. Like I could blurt out the essence of your being in one breath. It worked well enough.
I regret having you meet her, because even now, when I’m across the world from you and any resemblance of “us”, in time and space, your name haunts me. She likes to tell me how much she liked you, as if I don’t know how likable you are, as if I had decided to end our relationship on a whim, as if it’s helpful or appreciated in any way.
Your name somehow resembles my failure, as if you are the greatest achievement of my life, as if losing you was a terrible mistake I made, as if the point of our breakup is when my life began to fall apart. What I would really enjoy is to never hear your name again.
I know it’s not fair to put so much blame on you. It’s not your fault you’re so damn lovable. Wasn’t that why I fell in love with you in the first place, all those years ago?
I’m mostly angry with myself. Because after that terrible thing happened, after I broke up with you, I still wanted to protect you and the image of you. Partially because I was too embarrassed to explain to others what really happened. But mostly because I didn’t have the heart to tell them you weren’t perfect. I wanted to preserve your image. I wanted to protect you, in this insignificant and ridiculous way.
So this is my punishment. You’re preserved in sainthood and I am the idiot who let you go.