To my husband vol. 2
Jinnie, I was told today that it seems like i’m remembering our relationship through extremely rose tinted lenses. Of course i’ve considered this, and in fact have long since believed it to be true. I vividly recall a handful moments during our relationship when I was so frustrated and unhappy that I wished to be bound to you no longer, that we’d never even met. I also remember one particular night after our breakup. I was having dinner with Michael and Sebastian, I must have been lamenting our separation once more because Sebastian somewhat frustratedly pointed at the table we usually sat at when we visited Anh Thu II and said
“dude, I have sat at that exact table over there and listened to you complain about that relationship so many times, if you go back after all that…”
the memory trails off there, but I was aware he was right in that moment.
I’m also aware that if you truly wished it, as badly as I do, you could reach me very easily. You know about all the websites, and pages, and channels under my ownership, even the secret ones. An email, a comment, a message, it would be easy. Five hundred thousand followers, half a million people connected to or interested in me one way or another and you are seemingly not one of them. Your silence and absence can only mean two things.
you are dead
you are simply not interested or perhaps even loathe me.
It’s ironic, as much as I wish you were still in my life, I pray every day and to every deity that you loathe me, that you are alive and have moved on and are living a joyous life.
I ruminate on all these ideas daily, and still they seem not to affect or change my feelings at all. The depths of my sorrow are still unfathomable even to me who is steeped in it, and after two years, time seems to provide no relief, there is no salve, no solution to still being in love with you.
I may never recover from this, but if that is the cost of having been your wife at one time, then I am happy to pay every time this perpetual toll is collected.
I love you.
Chess.
