He would wake me up every morning, the table strewn with jams and scrambled eggs and fresh roasted coffee. Until one day, during breakfast, he told me he had decided to leave. I don’t want to be cold, but it’s a farewell to what we once were, he told me.


I cried myself to sleep and woke up crying, unable to do anything that reminded me of him. A hundred times I re-read the letter he wrote me, trying to understand how I could make someone who loved me so deeply suddenly turn away. We used to talk about what our children would look like and what their names would be. I imagined what a good father he would be.

He was my home, my shelter, my everything. I liked his being-there, I liked how we shared meals and lay down underneath the stars, the joy of cooking a meal for each other, the mini tangerines he would bring me home, how we'd embrace when we lay in bed at night. I had eyes for no one else.  

A month after leaving, he entered a  relationship with someone new. From one moment to the next, he treated me like someone he barely knew. 

For months I blamed myself, until I realised he had been emotionally detached all through.  I lacked his warmth, his empathy.  I didn't know how to deal with a cold heart. He didn't know how to deal with an empty one. 

Perhaps he came into my life for me to learn just how much I needed to solve. How much I needed to grow. How much self-love I needed to sow.  I grew not out of love but out of estrangement.  We went from being lovers to be being strangers.

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