When we first started fooling around together, it was just a meaningless fling. You were something to do in the evenings—a clandestine liaison for when the mood struck. Life back then was simple. Remember?
We’d lay on the couch, laughing at silly jokes, drinking wine, and spooning tubs cottage cheese into our mouths. (Okay, okay—I did all of the wine drinking and the cheese eating, but I enjoyed blaming the empty containers on you.) Our relationship was light and playful, and I lived purely for the thrill of fingers fumbling on keys. Sure it was fun, but to be honest, writing you meant nothing to me and I didn’t think our relationship would go anywhere.
Then everything started getting serious between us, Book. Months into the relationship, I realised there was more between us than just cheap laughs, good times and couch sessions. You started to mean something to me, and when we weren’t together, I’d think about you all the time. So I broke off all of my other commitments and gave myself to you wholeheartedly.
After that, everything changed. Life was no longer neat and tidy. It became complex and frustrating. We cried, we argued, we fought ugly battles. I lost sleep. I obsessed. Though I’m not proud to say this now, I often considered tearing you up into little pieces with my angry teeth. More than once, I wanted to go Lorena Bobbit on you, Book.
But we always forgave each other—that’s why we’ve survived this.
Three years, Book. That’s how long it has been since our first silly fling on the couch. I never thought I could be with someone like you for this long—I’d expected our personalities would clash. You with your constant demand for perfection, perseverance, and blind faith, and me with my impatience, self-doubt and undiagnosed ADHD disorder. I didn’t think we’d be a good fit, but somehow we’ve managed to make it work and together we’ve grown, molded and changed each other. I know I’m a better person for having known you, Book.
Now we must part, which makes me terribly sad. How will I fill my time without you? Who will I turn to when I’m feeling inspired? Will I know myself without you here every day, Book? I don’t know the answers to these questions, but what I do know is that I love you deeply with all my heart, and because of that, it’s time for me to let you go.
Happy travels into the big scary world, my Book. I hope you’re treated kindly and I hope that maybe, just maybe, you’ll find somebody else with whom you can have a late-night fling on the couch.