Dear Arthur,
When I think about us, I get this sort of all encompassing feeling of bittersweet warmth, almost like the feeling of drinking a mug of the black coffee you adored. It's disgusting, and it leaves my mouth feeling gross and dry, but it makes my heart jump and my body buzz with a sick anticipation. I just want more, I want to get that dizzy high… but the crash makes it all seem almost pointless. Detrimental, even.
Our high was the first "I love you," I think. The crash was everything after.
When the cold winter air bit our faces and reddened your cheeks and nose so beautifully… I just couldn't help the words that tumbled from my lips so clumsily. There was no lead up, no dramatic show of affection. Just your laugh, and then my mouth opening and spitting out the cursed words: "I love you." My body sometimes works without my consent, but what can I do? It's not like there's any taking it back. And it wasn't a lie. I stood awkwardly, awaiting your reply with my hands shoved in my pockets and my eyes downcast. Your hands tightened around your mug of black coffee, and your feet shuffled under the table.
I could tell I had affected you. I just didn't know how much.
I looked up, and I saw my own pathetic face light up in the reflection of your calculating eyes. Everything you did was always calculated, it was something so intriguing about you. But for the first time since we met, your face was uncertain, your voice wavering as you replied: "I love you too."
It was a feeling I had never really experienced before, the wonder of loving someone and having this rare emotion be felt back for you. I knew that it was fleeting, I knew that the odds were against us. We were young, stupid. I talked too much and you only knew how to listen. You were so neat and perfect, everything you said and did thought about and adjusted to necessity while I lived dangerously, an accident waiting to happen. But none of this mattered because you loved me.
I clung to those words, because the crash was such a forceful thing that without something to grasp onto, I would have been swallowed by it.
We moved in together soon after those words were uttered. I was eager to be closer, and you were eager to spend less on rent. The small apartment was a mess of magnificent proportions, my useless knick knacks organized, you insisting they needed to be neat. Your collection of alphabetized, color-coded bookshelves seemed almost normal with everything so put together.
I remember the day we finally had everything just how we wanted it. We bought the most hideous throw pillow, trying to convince ourselves it would "tie the room together." We tossed the thing onto our ugly yellow couch and laughed, harder than the situation really warranted. Seeing your face so lit up with humour was such an amazing thing, I just wanted to see your blinding smile all of the time. I made it my mission to.
I tried my very best to make you happy every single day. I know you don't believe that, I know that if you ever bothered to read this your lip would twitch like it always does when someone lies to you. But I'm telling the truth.
I'd buy flowers, and you'd wave me off, tell me that all they were was a reminder of our "suffocating mortality." I would clean up and you'd only notice the things that I forgot. I'd plan a date and you'd always have some work excuse in your arsenal of rejections. Sometimes I'd do nothing at all, and you would do what you always did. Sometimes I felt invisible to you, your eyes always downcast and set on something trivial. Or maybe I was the trivial thing, only there to pay half the rent and sometimes give you a kiss and a hug if you bothered to go to bed with me. I was so desperate for you, so needy and starved of affection. I let myself be blinded by it. I can only blame myself.
Our first real argument was when you had come home late from work, and I had stayed up to wait for you. I had gotten a promotion that day, and I so badly wanted to tell you about it. The moment you walked through the door, hunched and tired and wishing you were in bed, I had pulled you into a bone crushing hug with a shout. You shoved me off, of course. You always pushed me aside when I greeted you, but this time I felt some real malice in the gesture. Immediately, I started babbling. It seemed sensible when you said "could you please just be quiet for once." There was nothing wrong with the request, really. I did talk a lot, and you had had a long day. I shut my mouth and went to make you some tea. For hours I waited for you to calm down so I could finally share the good news. It was bursting out of me, really. Eventually I just gave into the gnawing temptation and burst out with it. You weren't as happy as I had hoped. You were frustrated because you were trying to relax, and my loud voice was too jarring to allow it. I was defensive, too defensive really. We argued, our loud voices causing a neighbour to complain to landlord, which lead to you having to convince him not to kick us out. You were so angry after that, and I knew it was my fault. To make up for it, I began to talk less. I just hoped it would make you happy.
Being with you after that was like living on a battlefield with a healthy scattering of land mines. There were days when my quiet would just upset you, and others where you would glare and snap at me for speaking. I can't read a room, it's my fault that I never know how to act. I tried, though. When you needed space, I'd go out with friends. If you wanted quiet I would go on my phone and text. Soon even that was an issue. On one hand, your jealousy made me feel noticed and wanted, something I craved so desperately. On the other, seeing you so upset reading my messages after snatching away my phone, seeing you throw it against a wall and then turn on me, hearing you tell me I never cared and I loved my friends more than you, made me feel like the gum stuck to the bottom of your shoe. It was okay, though. You bought me a new phone and apologized. You had been drinking. I didn't care, really. We agreed I would just spend less time out and about, less time on my phone.
After that you seemed a bit more possessive. I finally got what I wanted, you. The sex was rougher, for sure. I'd usually walk away with bruises on my hips and dark hickeys across my neck. But hey, I didn't mind a kinkier lifestyle. I loved it when you said I was yours, how you whispered "mine" in my ear while you touched me. I ignored the nights when the sickening smell of alcohol covered the usual soothing cigarette scent of your breath. Those nights you weren't gentle, those were the nights when you just did as you pleased and got your pleasure. I didn't mind. You were happy.
Matthew said that I was being abused. He told me to get away from you because you were hurting me. But he was wrong, and I told him so. You never hit me, not even when you were drunk. You grabbed me, and you shook and shoved and even spat on me. But you never hit me. I'm bigger than you, and stronger. I could handle all that. I couldn't handle being without you.
But now… now I'm writing you this letter because I realize he's right. Not about the abuse, really. I still don't think you ever abused me. But about me needing to get away. Because I need to face the fact that I don't make you happy.
Arthur, I'm tired. I'm always so tired from the effort it takes to keep you content. Your words have worn me down to the point when every morning waking up is a new form or explicit torture. I lost weight for you when you said I was fat, I cut my hair when you said it was too long, I stopped talking when you said I was too loud. I've made so many changes, but you're never happy. And that hurts me. I wish I was able to brighten your life like you brighten mine, I wish I could be there for you like the bottle. But I can't. So I'm leaving, so you can try and be happy. All I do is upset you, so you need me to go. I'm going to be staying with Matthew for a bit, until I can get used to being alone. I'm telling you because I don't want you to worry.
I love you, Arthur. Even now, when I'm saying it as a goodbye, I get a rush. It's been a while since you said it back to me, but I know you love me too.
I love you, Arthur. Good bye.
Love,
Alfred.