The first few minutes I couldn’t think of anything. My mind was still processing what had happened. Our love story had come to a sudden and harsh halt. A blossoming rose mercilessly ripped from the ground. Out of nowhere, you told me you didn’t love me. You left me. What had I done wrong? What had I said? Everything had been going so well. I didn’t understand. It made no sense. Could a love of years really turn to hate so suddenly?
It came out of nowhere.
The first few hours I thought of how much I loved you, how lost I was without you. Where was I supposed to go when you were my home? We had made plans for the future. I thought of the promises we’d made to each other. The places we would go, the memories we would make. Vows reduced to empty fantasies. What about our past? I thought of our long nights talking, from fun banter to intellectual debates. I remember falling asleep on the phone as we shared every moment we could together. I couldn’t count how many times you came to my home, you’d practically lived there. I thought of how good it felt. Our wonderful time together. We’d connected so well. We completed each other’s sentences. We knew everything about the other. We’d shared secrets and opened up about deep feelings. We had seen each other at our best, had been there when we were at our worst. It had been picture perfect. Where had it gone wrong?
It came out of nowhere
The first few days I thought of how loving you’d been. How you’d seen my imperfections but stayed with me regardless. I thought of how patient you were with me. How understanding you were when I admitted my insecurities to you. How unbothered you were by my mistakes. You always forgave me when I’d done something wrong. When I’d said the wrong thing or talked to the wrong person. I thought of how protective you were of me. I remembered how you would warn me about being close with friends. You said you didn’t want to see me hurt, how sweet was that? You looked out for me, you were always there to determine who was true and who was not. You always knew best. You encouraged me to try new things. You told me what movies were good, what shows were worth watching, what the best music was. You encouraged me to go out of my comfort zone. To do things I had never done before. When my family wasn’t supportive of us, you told me to follow my heart. To follow you. I did, yet it didn’t matter in the end.
It came out of nowhere.
The first few weeks I thought of when we would go out. You’d always picked where we would go. You knew the best restaurants. You would always take something from my plate. You’d never offered me anything. You would decide what we did. You never asked what I wanted. You knew better anyways. You would finish my sentences. You would interrupt my words to insert your own narrative to my story. I talked to my family for the first time in years. They embraced me with love and warmth. You said they didn’t care for me as much as you did. You had said the friends I had lost touch with wouldn’t want me. You had said I didn’t need them when I had you. They answered my calls without hesitation.
It came… out of nowhere?
More weeks passed. I thought of how you would never invite me to your home, you always came to mine. I thought of how you wouldn’t put up a real fight when I paid for dinners. I’d watched all the movies you’d told me to. All the shows. Listened to all the music. You’d never cared for my suggestions. They weren’t good enough. I remembered the backhanded compliments. The mocking. They were simple jokes or so you’d said. I couldn’t tell what was genuine and what was not. You would always kept it vague. I remembered comforting you when you would cry. I remembered how you would say nobody understood you. Nobody had as much pain as you. I remembered the dismissals when I tried to reassure you. I remembered scrambling my brain for the correct thing to say. I remembered apologizing for things that weren’t my fault. I remembered shaking when I shared my own traumas. My fears and nightmares. I remembered the sadness in your face… No. It was disgust. You’d told me to compose myself. I remembered how monotone you’d sounded when you told me others had it worse. You had it worse.
It’s been months, and now I remember.
I now remember how the conversation always revolved around you. I remember how you talked more than I did. I remember how quick you were to shoot down whoever didn’t agree with you. I remember walking on eggshells when talking to you. I remember how you made sure to always have the upper hand in arguments. You always brought up small mistakes, presenting them as personal attacks and when I countered your arguments you would shut down. I remember how you would use my insecurities against me. I remember the pain when you would refuse to listen to me until I submitted and said what you wanted to hear.
It didn’t come out of nowhere.
I was so desperate to show you I loved you.
I refused to see that you’d never loved me.
Jesse Ponce, Mexican Canadian transman, has an easier time writing than speaking. What started as an escape and a way to cope with trauma has become a passion for creative writing and a dream to tell stories people can relate to, to feel seen and know they are not alone. After hopping one college program to another, ranging from Engineering to Art, there’s still uncertainty in what the future holds, but at the end of the day there’s always a word document waiting for a new story to tell.
Featured Image by Ivan Samkov
