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I’m in Majorca, in the same apartment that Eliza and I spent our vacation together.
I walk out onto the balcony and stare out over the sea. The breeze whips at my hair, and a flood of memories wash over me like a warm bath.
I smile, I feel at peace here. It’s like I can feel the closeness that Eliza and I shared. It lingers in the air like a wonderful perfume.
This is a special place, and I came here to try and find some clarity. This heartache isn’t going away. If anything, it’s getting worse by the day. I was positive that it would be fine, and that everything would pan out as it was supposed to. But it doesn’t feel like that. It’s like I’m fighting against fate.
With every breath that I take, I feel it. The weight of what I have lost is a heavy load to carry.
Follow your gut.
The age old saying is supposed to lead me in the right direction. But unfortunately, my gut has left the building, along with all rationality.
Recently, it’s like everything has come to a head. I keep going over and over that last week we were together, and how I reacted to Robert’s admission of love.
I was shocked, for sure. But I constantly told Eliza it was her that I wanted.
I exhale heavily. Did she see it differently to me? I told her that I didn’t want him. I told her I loved her. I told her how I felt.
But she left anyway.
I close my eyes in regret. I don’t even know who was in the wrong anymore.
I was positive it wasn’t me, but I know Eliza, and I know that she would have called me, if only as a friend, if I were not to blame.
I watch a seagull. It flies over the ocean and lands on the sand. Music starts up somewhere in the distance, and another wave of fresh memories roll in.
I remember us dancing out here in the moonlight to the distant melody.
I open a beer and take a seat in the deckchair, and I put my feet up on the ottoman as my mind repeats the mantra, Where did we go wrong?
Five days later
I sit on the balcony and stare at the unopened letter in my hand. I read the words on the front of it.
My darling Nathan.
It’s those exact words that have kept me from opening it.
She’s going to try and soften the blow as to why she left—justify it in some way—and I don’t want to hear it. She needn’t waste her breath, because the cold, hard fact is that she just didn’t love me enough to stay. No pretty words can take that away.
Amanda’s, my new therapist, words come back to me with her advice: If you don’t open the letter, you won’t ever move on.
She thinks that because I don’t know all the facts, my mind is holding onto the heartache, and holding me captive along with it. She thinks there’s a reason I couldn’t have my tatoo removed.
I throw the letter onto the table in front of me, and I sip my beer as I stare at it and then place it back down.
This fucking letter has been taunting me for six months.
I twist my hands together on my lap as I brace myself.
Fuck this. I pick it up and tear open the seal.
Nathan.
Timing hasn’t been kind to us, my darling.
* * *
