It has been years since I read a book that left me so emotionally drained that I continued to cry or feel morose well after I had finished reading it. This is what happened after Frances and Bernard. Truly, I can’t describe how heartbroken I felt when the novel ended, but the characters’ tumultuous and, yet, passionate affair felt so real. So real, in fact, that it reminded me of the correspondences between D and I.
I blew up on him (through email since he’s in a different country) after a night of a bottle of wine and confessing that he was the reason there weren’t other guys in my life right now. His response was to tell me that, while what we had meant something to him, it wasn’t stopping him from finding something realistic. I guess talking to someone non-stop for three months isn’t realistic enough. I gather that the “relationship” we had was a result of the both of us feeling particularly lonely and undesirable. And, while this was the case for the first month, the last two months had resulted in me feeling more willing to be open with him and, in turn, more emotionally invested than I should have been.
I sent him one last email because my conscious wouldn’t allow me to end this with a terse and sarcastic farewell to have a good life. Instead, I wanted him to know that I thought of him as a friend now and didn’t want our friendship to end like this. I guess a part of me thought that the universe brought us together for a reason, so it couldn’t end so abruptly.
He hasn’t answered me.
He probably won’t.
I hate to admit that my stomach constricts and my breathing slows and water forms a clear wall between what I want to see and what reality truly is.
I shall move on.