We didn’t need to be perfect to be happy.

I’ve been thinking about how to start this email without looking like I’m lost in the world. Well, it is true that I have been putting some important matters aside, putting off necessary decisions and accumulating strange days. But I can’t sum up the time in avoiding you, can I? And maybe here’s the reason for this email: it’s hard to avoid you. I have failed in the decision to push away any thoughts that take me back, especially on rainy days or when silence unfolds over the bed. I confess that the absence of sentimental words and responsible for our sighs took a long vacation from us, as well as the complicity of the touch, the unexpected calls in the middle of the night…

What was left? Using my computer’s worn-out keys to say how much the longing for you has caused unnecessary emotional wear and tear on me. It is right to claim in your defense that we have resolved to maintain healthy communication between us; We still ask our friends about how we’re dealing with distance, breakup, new choices. But you’ll say it’s just care, a way to clear your conscience about the sentimental damage caused. I stay here trying to deal with the constant longing – a perfect ray of energy that, when it reaches its end point, keeps emitting even more energy.

Do you now understand the extent of my disorder? If you had the slightest idea of ​​the damage I have caused in life (or life causing in me), you would certainly consider the possibility of giving up your lap and asking how the days have been without you. And I would. Yes, I would.

I would count all the storms, the weird days on autopilot, the meetings with friends who insist on knowing if I’m okay after you, the romantic Facebook messages I avoid looking at, or the movies and songs that talk about us. After all, I’m one of those spacious women who aren’t quite sure how many inches I can take up in someone’s life (and maybe, just maybe, you like still having so much of me in you).

Some will say I’m being weak. Well, maybe I am, but I’ve learned over time that silencing wills doesn’t help at all. Yes, I will tell all my fears, afflictions and fears, because even after the end, I expect sincerity between us.

I am tired. I’m tired and my feet seem to refuse to go on. I’m not sure what to do. Walking without you doesn’t seem like a solution to me, it’s like I’m giving up my right to stay happy. After all, I’m pretty sure when you left my house you took a handful of me in your bags.

It would be like leaving the road waiting for me while I stop and rest, pick up the crumbs, the particles above us, align my thoughts and swallow that damned knot of anguish and fear sitting in the center of my throat. Now I reside here, right here – strange place that I cannot define, but it is uniquely here.

Maybe it’s a sentimental and romantic limbo, the place where souls who still don’t know how to deal with the end stay while they heal. Sometimes, on clear and curious nights, I wonder if I can see the stars from exactly where I am.

I don’t know what I’m doing with my life. They say it’s normal, an expected and passing phase that plagues everyone who has had their heart broken. The problem, my dear, is not knowing exactly what broke in me when you left.

However, let me reassure your heart a little: not even torture, falls and wounds have I lived. Did you know I’ve been reading more than before? It’s like I can find you in every anti hero, in the sentimental thug, in the frustrated choices, in the tears of the young lady.

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Ah, well… I’ve always known your bravery, but are you aware of mine? I mean, are you aware of my courage, cunning and ability to follow? I’m pretty sure you also find traces of me throughout your day; You never let me go, did you? It’s as if somehow we can still keep our breaths in constant tune.

Maybe I’m going crazy – they say that homesickness can cause us great imbalances. There are days when I imagine you sprawled out on my couch, taking up a much larger space than my living room; reading my words, my statements or telling silly cases of everyday life, and his lips drawing that smile responsible for breaking waves in my heart, creating butterflies, expelling the gray from the clouds. My love, you still have a gift.

With the addition of time, I understood that our love continues to provide enough daily subsidies to heal some wounds – they are like monsters waiting for any slip. Yet I stand firm, holding on one day at a time. And even with your forced departure, you’ve taken care of me by keeping every memory about us alive, throbbing safe.

One day you told me that “God knew exactly what he was doing when he created you”; today, after all the pain endured and overcome in silent doses, I can say that he knew very well what he was doing when he brought us together. We were, at the same time, romantic creatures stumbling along the lifeline in search of perfect love. And maybe we were wrong to think that we needed to be perfect to be happy.

If I could, I would read with you again, dance together, watch series, share nonsense between strange laughs. But we need to respect the end, the distance, the blank space that was created between what we were and what we have become. It would launch an unusual invitation for a trip with no defined destination – just go and let time be able to glue the patches in our history. It’s the longing writing for me, I’m sorry.

I really miss “we”.

Finally, how are you?

Faah Bastos

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the loves of our lives