Girl on the Net

This time he comes to mine to do the stuff swap, I won’t put the effort in to meet him. He comes to my place, and he texts on the way: do you want me to just leave it at the door? No.

I have to mark this break up somehow, but it feels unlike any I’ve known before. Sad blog posts and wistful, loving words don’t trip easily from my fingertips.

This time it’s different.

This time I want to write this.

I don’t hunt greedily for the smell of him on the hoodie he returns, not this time. I do not lift it to my face to breathe in the remaining lungfuls of his scent: I dump it in the laundry bin the second he’s gone. I don’t court nostalgia by reading through old messages: I archive it all to my laptop then delete every trace from my phone.

When I talk on the blog about relationships ending, I try to commit to kindness. It isn’t fair to tear someone to pieces just because our love didn’t happen to last. I’ve done that pretty consistently for many years now so I hope you’ll believe me when I tell you the following:

This post right here? It is kind.

In showing you none of my feelings, I am doing Hot Punk Guy a kindness.

Instead I’ll give you this brief sketch of a moment: him, standing on my doorstep looking pale. Holding a crumpled Sainsbury’s bag containing one of my hoodies and a t-shirt. I stand in the open doorway and I stare at him. I don’t know, at first, what it is I hope to see, but I know I need to take one last look at his face. Study this man I thought I loved, in light of the news that he isn’t the person I knew.

I’m trying to conjure an emotion other than blank, cold numbness. How do I feel about this stranger at my door?

I look at him, and hand him a carrier bag with his own t-shirts stuffed down inside. I listen to his weak attempts to reverse the damage he’s done, and remember that in one of the voice note apologies he sent, he praised me for being “the most magical… understanding… beautiful… interesting person.”

That word – ‘understanding’ – is the moment I knew it was well and truly over.

I am understanding. At least, I try to be. It’s an important part of what it takes to love someone: you embrace their mistakes and work to get your head around why they made them. Apply empathy and compassion. Listen when they explain and try to recognise how someone who loves you could nevertheless have hurt you by accident. Understanding is important and we should all value it.

But we shouldn’t fetishise it. Use it.

“You’re the most magical… understanding… person.”

I look at him standing on my doorstep, and I try to apply some of my magical understanding…

But there are some things even I can’t comprehend.

I should close the door, but I don’t just yet. I keep looking because I want to know… who is this charming punk, really? I want to feel an emotion. To understand what it is that he conjures inside me.

In the past, when I’ve broken up with people, I’ve usually felt an overwhelming pull of love. I know I’ll have to rip the roots of it from my heart to avoid being dragged back into a relationship that my head now knows is unsustainable. But as I say, this time it’s different.

I look at Hot Punk Guy for long enough and – finally – it’s there. An emotion. A very strong one. I won’t tell you what it is, because he’ll probably read this. Right now I don’t think my feelings are any of his business.

Besides, I’m trying to be kind.

So instead I’ll just tell you that what swells up within me as I take one last look at this man…

…it is not love.

What he’s done is not illegal. Please don’t speculate in the comments or on social media. Thanks to a lawyer friend (and a number of other friends and colleagues) for reading this and giving feedback before publication.

This happened in early November so I’ve had lots of time to process and, as with anything that feels raw, I’ve left a long gap so I can be sure that I’m comfortable hitting ‘publish.’ I don’t wish him harm, I just won’t pretend this was anything other than what it was. Unlike past break ups, I might actually write about this some day, but for now I’ll just say that if you know me in real life or run into me at an event, the story is yours for the low low price of a pint to drink while I tell it.