My deceitful darling

R, my darling,
I love you, I do. I have done so for many years, since we were fourteen, even.
I remember when I finally told you I loved you. Ironically, your multifaceted emotional response was a perfect example of what I love so much about you. No sooner had the words passed my lips it was clear that you do not love me.

A split second saw Surprise, then Dismay chase across your delicate features, with the merest echo of fear, swiftly smothered beneath what you believed to be an attitude of accommodating tolerance as I continued to explain how I felt. It’s the same kind of compassionate unconditional positive regard routine so popular with therapists (you’ve been to enough of them to know it inside and out, and yes, darling, it comes across just as disingenuously when you wear it). Beneath the façade your alarm became pity, followed quickly by guilt.

Deep down, your heart rejected me but your desperation for someone, for anyone to love you (oh, abandoned and manipulated child) would not allow you to pass up this opportunity, on the premise that any love > none.

So you quieted your panic (but I could still see it. It’s amazing the things that love will show you) and attempted to respond with eloquence. Expressing gratitude and making a show of being flattered and surprised in a suitably feminine fashion. Then hasty assurance that the adoration was mutual. A kind but cruel lie. One you are still telling, to me and to yourself.

And I wanted to hear it. I wanted to be convinced. I wanted you to love me. But you are the only one that believes your lie. I will still love you, truly, deeply and sadly. You will never love me, not like this. So, I release you. You don’t have to pretend anymore. It hurts us both.