They speak of spirituality that love means forgiveness, fighting for each other when things are not going well. They tell you that breaking up what the world put together is a wrong move, that you both are hurting because you were meant to be together, not because they hurt you. It sounds deep, but it’s rubbish. It sounds introspective, but something about it feels heavy, like it’s trying to pull you back into something you’ve already crawled out of. And then it all fits: they’re not writing to you because they’ve changed; they’re writing because you have something they don’t.
What is it? Perhaps you’re going to tell the truth. Perhaps you hold evidence. Perhaps their double life depends on a thread, and you hold the scissors. And the love letter means something different now. Implicitly but compellingly, they begin to plead with you not to tamper with what they have created, not to open up, not to destroy their reputation. But they don’t say, “Please don’t share me.” They say, “Please hold in mind what we shared.” They say, “Let’s not leave to the world something so intimate.” They say, “Real love keeps things private to two people.” And you begin to see it in broad daylight for what it is: a sneaky entitlement dressed up as passion.
They request the quiet from you, not the connection. They request safety, not healing. They want you to feel guilty for even having thought something that would betray what they are. So they attempt to suffocate your voice with feeling. They overflow your heart with everything you ever longed for, in the hope it will erase from your memory what you know now. And had you not grown, it might have worked, because there is power in hearing the very words you ever pleaded for. It touches a bruised place. It pets the version of you that waited too long to be apologized to, doesn’t it? To be noticed, to be loved.
But it cannot be maintained anymore, because now you can discern between tactics and truth. This is not a love letter or a note; it is a beautifully written diversion. And when you read it, actually, not with your heart but with detached clearness, cold curiosity, you see everything that the message doesn’t see. It doesn’t see the actual hurt they inflicted. It doesn’t see the things they know you might be able to establish. It doesn’t see the facts that would refute the falsehoods they tell other folks about you.
It doesn’t see the very motive they’re accusing you of. Because it was never love; it was control. And now that they are losing it, they will put on the guise of manipulation and call it mercy and plead you can’t distinguish between the two. But you can. That’s why the letter arrived too late.
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