There is something that happens inside me every time he tries to explain himself.
As if his words collided with a version of me that no longer exists.
I hear him speak from that place where he didn't do anything so serious, from that corner where everything can be justified, where the blows become "impulses",
The screams turn into "heat of the moment," and my fear... into exaggeration.
And as I hear it, something in me breaks differently.
Not like that time, not in my body.
It breaks in the part that I still wanted to believe that there was something to rescue.
Because I do remember.
I do see myself in that scene.
I do see his hands.
I do hear my voice telling him "No in the head" as if he were eight years old and not twenty-something.
I do feel the emptiness, the helplessness, the way my body shrint just to survive.
And he... he repeats a story where nothing was so terrible.
A story where I provoked him.
Where I screamed the same.
Where I am "intense", "dramatic", "sensitive".
And I know he does it because he couldn't stand to really look at himself.
But even knowing that, it hurts.
It hurts because that version of him has no room for mine.
Because for him to sleep, I have to shut up.
Because so that he doesn't bear the blame, I have to carry silence.
And I don't want anymore.
What surprises me the most is how quickly it gets back together.
The speed with which he becomes "he" again:
The nice boy, the funny one, the one who makes jokes, the one who talks to everyone as if nothing touched him.
And then I see her,
The other girl.
The one he looks at with that softness that I didn't have with me a long time ago.
The one who answers quickly.
The one who listens.
The one who doesn't interrupt.
The one who accompanies to the door.
To the one who asks if he arrived well.
Sometimes he even smiles at him differently.
A light glow, as if it didn't carry anything, as if it wasn't made of shadows.
And the most ironic thing is that she ignores him.
Not because I hate it, but because I don't see it.
It doesn't register it as something important.
He doesn't need to like it.
It doesn't compete.
Don't expect anything.
And he... he makes small gestures to get her attention.
It's so subtle that almost no one notices it.
But I do.
Because I loved him.
Because I know him.
Because I looked at him in all his versions, even the ones he denies.
Seeing him like that - so kind, so correct, so careful - hits me in a strange place.
Not because I want her to treat me like her.
But because I know he can.
That he always could.
Who was never incapable of being tender or respectful.
That for me he chose another face.
That with me her hand didn't tremble, but for her her voice does tremble.
And there I understand something that breaks me:
It's not that I didn't know how to love...
But that he didn't want to love me.
Faced with his attempt to justify himself, I feel like shouting at him that no, that it was not a misunderstanding, that they were not "taps", that it was not another discussion.
That I went to sleep with fear.
That I took that fear days later.
That still appears when I hear a loud door slam.
But I don't say it.
Not because I protect him.
But because I no longer have the energy to educate someone who doesn't want to learn. So I let him talk.
I let you invent your story.
I'll let you arrange the story as it suits you best.
And I in silence... I settle down to myself.
Because at some point I understood that I can't force anyone to take charge. That I can't wait for someone to see the damage they did if they need to be blind to survive.
He chooses denial.
I choose the truth.
He chooses to justify himself.
I choose to let go.
He chooses to be happy in front of her.
I choose not to break again because of that.
And even if it hurts, even if it storn, even if pride and memory sting, deep down I know that this time I choose well.
Because I'm not fighting to get back with him.
I'm struggling to get back with me