At various times, various places, you just come to me. I remember the amazing conversations we had, your curiosity and thirst for more. I remember the gentle, caring love we would make, always making sure to be attentive and good to one another. I remember the time you told me I must ask questions and I remember the time you were unwilling to tell me your name. I remember the time you fell asleep on my lap and I played you Russian folk songs, and I remember waking up to confessing our love to one another. I remember those slow mornings, those ever-lasting evenings in bars and clubs, long walks and bike roads, thinking about how to jump a fence and seeing you having already jumped it. I remember these times and I see the underlying beauty of it, that intangible thing that makes life worth living.

It was her who made me feel good in B. I didn’t understand that before. I read through our very earliest messages, and there it was. She was the one planning all the things, inviting me around, sending links and talking about art and discussing about culture and feminism and class. It was her who made me happy in that city. She was the one full of energy and kindness and care and it was her who wrote the most beautiful essays of love that only on the surface seemed normal but deep down they were sonnets of love and care. They were the manifestation of kindness and thoughtfulness, the kind of thing that only happens when one is being attentive, paying attention to the other. It was the care that I mentioned to her in that last email — the ever-present, gentle care. The one you only notice isn’t there anymore when you fall. I fell and I miss it. I miss her. I miss her care and gentleness. I will miss it all.

I want you to be there, A. I want to hold your hand, see you once more, tell you how much you brought into my life, tell you how amazing you are and how blessed I was to have you. Thank you for the life that you have given me, for the beauty and joy you brought me, for letting me love you and having your beautiful, gentle, caring love. Thank you. I will never forget.

She left me on Saturday. I went to get a bowl of cereal just before talking, to eat a bit. How irrelevant, yet when I saw the dry, empty bowl after our chat, it was strange but I thought: that bowl, that expectation of just having a chat, that made no sense at all. Seeing that was almost like a form of sarcasm.

I didn’t know what to say. I still don’t know. I was wrong. I got on a cycle, a repetition of myself. Not interested in her, her history, her life. I was concentrated on myself, my own life, my own hardship. I didn’t see her. I was blinded by the everyday. I was frustrated and annoyed and bored with the everyday and forgot to see all the beauty we had together. Those moments of pure silence that were short manifestations of the eternal beauty we brought into this world. When we didn’t have to say anything, just hold one another. Those moments of being understood and cared for. I lost track of all of that and ended up being tired and lonely, afraid that I’m alone again. I was selfish. I’m sorry, A. I’m terribly sorry I let you hang there without me being around you. I’m sorry I didn’t think of you, dream of you, love you. I’m sorry.

Biking back home on this early summer day, all the girls dressed light and short, beautiful legs, beautiful smiles, the sun on their beautiful breasts and I’m just going home, going nowhere, to the ether where nothing awaits but my own boredom and now I feel like this idiot who will never be happy, always longing for a beautiful girlfriend, who will never come. Like when I was a child, just longing, waiting, and self-hating for being stupid and for never being good enough for a girl, just me and my feelings of uselessness and self-hate. Biking, seeing all these beautiful, happy girls and I’m miserable and take it out on the bike, pushing it, pushing it harder, as fast as I can go, maybe I will forget but I won’t, I’ll never forget that I’m alone. Alone in this place where everyone worships money and power and I worship beautiful girls, thinking only they can save me, only they can help me. Only I can help myself, but I don’t want to hear that, because it’s also true that someone fun and engaging and beautiful could at least help me a little bit getting out of this mess I got myself into. I don’t even know how I got here. But it’s really-really bad and I need someone I can at least touch and talk to or I’ll really-really go crazy.