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Dear Claire

Let me tell you a story. Unlike almost all the best stories it is entirely non-fictional. I know this because I experienced this story. This story is about me.

I remember the very first time I met you. It was the second day of college. I’d missed the first day with measles, so when I turned up for Chemistry everyone except me had seats. I asked you if the space next to you was taken, and you said “not unless the person sitting there is invisible”. And then you laughed.

You were the first person I ever met who laughed at their own jokes. I often smiled inside at my own wit, but you giggled uncontrollably at yours. I sat down, trying to think of something smart to say. The best I could come up with was “Whatever you’ve got, I hope it’s not contagious”.

As soon as I said it, I realised that wasn’t as friendly as I intended. Typical me, really, putting my foot in it, even at the stage when there is very little “it” to put a foot through. But you laughed even harder, and smiled at me warmly. When you’re recovering from measles, a smile as warm as yours is as good a start as any.

I would be lying if I said I loved you then. But over the coming months I fell in love with you, piece by piece, day by day. I moved as close to you as I could in the other lessons we shared. We held hands and I tickled you. It was no surprise to either of us that when it came to saying goodbye for the Christmas holidays we kissed, as well as hugged.

Our relationship was perfect. It was always going to be, perfect as you were. We laughed and hugged and kissed and shared everything. Time alone with you was time well spent, all over time was wasted. The first time we got physical was both our first times. Oh how we shook. And we had no idea what we were doing. But it was still perfect.

You left me totally unexpectedly. You tried to explain why, but I was so numb I remember very little. Only the words you used that you had never used before, words like “hurt”, “unsure”, “empty. You said you needed some time to think. Time and space.

Did you know, even then, that you would fill your time and space with him? To start with we chatted and smiled. It hurt, but we coped. Then he came along. You’re smiles became forced, the conversation monotonous. You never told me about him - you knew it would destroy me. You knew I clung on to the thought of getting back with you and didn’t have the guts to ruin that for me, too.

I remember when I found out. Steve told me. I cried for hours, but all the time, I knew I needed to see you. That’s why I confronted you. The look on your face... I couldn’t quite place such an unexpected emotion at the time, but I know now: It was fear. Because in that moment you realise you would have to tell me everything.

You met him at secondary school, and he was called Martin. You’d been with him for 3 years. I wasn’t first, he was. He was, in fact, your fiancé. I’ll never forget when you told me that. You couldn’t look me in the eye. Couldn’t bear to see the silent tears roll harder down my already soaked cheeks.

You never loved me, only him. He was the one. He’d moved away a year before we met, to Edinburgh. He promised you he’d come back. You gave up, and I arrived at just the right – or should that be wrong? – moment. But he did. And when he arrived back, he bought back all your hopes and dreams. The teaching, the travelling... I thought they were our dreams. In fact they were his.

When you finished speaking, you got up to leave. And I’ll never forget what you said next. “I’m sorry; it’s not you it’s me.” I’ll never forget that because it wasn’t me, or you. It was him. He got there first. He got lucky. You were wrong. And you were never wrong. In the year I’d known you, not once, until then.

That was six months ago. I hope you are happy. You don’t deserve it, but I hope nonetheless. Happy like you pretended to be with me. Happy like I was. At least I think I was. You’ve numbed me to all feelings, all emotions. You anesthetised me to life, Claire, and I don’t think I’m going to wake up.

That is why I’m writing this. You of all people do not deserve my suicide note. Then again, maybe you do. Maybe I can make you feel as shit as you made me feel.

See you in hell

Ben

Description
Dear Claire

Let me tell you a story. Unlike almost all the best stories it is entirely non-fictional. I know this because I experienced this story. This story is about me.

I remember the very first time I met you. It was the second day of college. I’d missed the first day with measles, so when I turned up for Chemistry everyone except me had seats. I asked you if the space next to you was taken, and you said “not unless the person sitting there is invisible”. And then you laughed.

You were the first person I ever met who laughed at their own jokes. I often smiled inside at my own wit, but you giggled uncontrollably at yours. I sat down, trying to think of something smart to say. The best I could come up with was “Whatever you’ve got, I hope it’s not contagious”.

As soon as I said it, I realised that wasn’t as friendly as I intended. Typical me, really, putting my foot in it, even at the stage when there is very little “it” to put a foot through. But you laughed even harder, and smiled at me warmly. When you’re recovering from measles, a smile as warm as yours is as good a start as any.

I would be lying if I said I loved you then. But over the coming months I fell in love with you, piece by piece, day by day. I moved as close to you as I could in the other lessons we shared. We held hands and I tickled you. It was no surprise to either of us that when it came to saying goodbye for the Christmas holidays we kissed, as well as hugged.

Our relationship was perfect. It was always going to be, perfect as you were. We laughed and hugged and kissed and shared everything. Time alone with you was time well spent, all over time was wasted. The first time we got physical was both our first times. Oh how we shook. And we had no idea what we were doing. But it was still perfect.

You left me totally unexpectedly. You tried to explain why, but I was so numb I remember very little. Only the words you used that you had never used before, words like “hurt”, “unsure”, “empty. You said you needed some time to think. Time and space.

Did you know, even then, that you would fill your time and space with him? To start with we chatted and smiled. It hurt, but we coped. Then he came along. You’re smiles became forced, the conversation monotonous. You never told me about him - you knew it would destroy me. You knew I clung on to the thought of getting back with you and didn’t have the guts to ruin that for me, too.

I remember when I found out. Steve told me. I cried for hours, but all the time, I knew I needed to see you. That’s why I confronted you. The look on your face... I couldn’t quite place such an unexpected emotion at the time, but I know now: It was fear. Because in that moment you realise you would have to tell me everything.

You met him at secondary school, and he was called Martin. You’d been with him for 3 years. I wasn’t first, he was. He was, in fact, your fiancé. I’ll never forget when you told me that. You couldn’t look me in the eye. Couldn’t bear to see the silent tears roll harder down my already soaked cheeks.

You never loved me, only him. He was the one. He’d moved away a year before we met, to Edinburgh. He promised you he’d come back. You gave up, and I arrived at just the right – or should that be wrong? – moment. But he did. And when he arrived back, he bought back all your hopes and dreams. The teaching, the travelling... I thought they were our dreams. In fact they were his.

When you finished speaking, you got up to leave. And I’ll never forget what you said next. “I’m sorry; it’s not you it’s me.” I’ll never forget that because it wasn’t me, or you. It was him. He got there first. He got lucky. You were wrong. And you were never wrong. In the year I’d known you, not once, until then.

That was six months ago. I hope you are happy. You don’t deserve it, but I hope nonetheless. Happy like you pretended to be with me. Happy like I was. At least I think I was. You’ve numbed me to all feelings, all emotions. You anesthetised me to life, Claire, and I don’t think I’m going to wake up.

That is why I’m writing this. You of all people do not deserve my suicide note. Then again, maybe you do. Maybe I can make you feel as shit as you made me feel.

See you in hell

Ben