I gripped something with my hands. I don't remember what. I remember I was sitting on my favourite chair, in front of my papers, deciding if I should write something, or just go to bed. Bed. Sleep. It sounded too wonderful to be truth, something too wonderful to happen to me, specially that night. I remember I was sitting on my favourite chair, listening to God knows what instrumental Blues CD. I was there, trying to remember, to imagine, some of tose love-stories I loved to write, adventures, fantasies, hopes even. Something that would look remotely intellectual and deep.

Nothing would come into my mind.

Truth was... I missed him. It hurt not to see him.

I pretended not to know, just to fool myself, why I missed him. To keep my mind wandering. I didn't know why I was furious with him. I did not know why jealousy invaded my heart like some kind of thick, disgusting liquid, drowning it in the most obscure, putrid substance there was. It wasn't hatred. It wasn't pity. It wasn't anything like I'd felt since I began to talk to him, since I began loving him with an horrid devotion, in a completely passionate, yet abstract, unreachable distance relationship.

For some odd reason, I hated when people talked to him, took him away from my reach, from my knowledge, and though, even if I could not help it, I detested them all. I used to ''share'' him with a friend, a very good friend. But still, it was not the same. I never in my whole relationship with him had felt...

...Displaced.

Left behind. Felt like a fool. Never. And that was what made him that special, that was what made me adore him with such unconditionality.

That's why I always wanted people to know him, I introduced him proudly, and yet, never, ever left him alone with anyone, out of fear, out of selfishness, out of...cowardice. Lack of confidence.

He never once allowed me to feel bad, he would always try to help me, he would always keep that creative fiber in my heart, and he, with his immaculate image in the dephts of my soul, was motive of my worship.

I wished I could scream at him, and cry, and blame him for anything. Everything! But it was useless. I could not blame him for a decision that was not mine to make. I could not blame him for wanting to help another person, I could not blame him for wanting to emphatize with someone who was not me.

I could not blame him for needing to let me a side.

And, do you want to know something?

It was my fault.

I felt anger arise in me, and screamed at him, and shook angry fists at the other person, wishing she would die, wishing she could leave Him and me alone, to continue with our endless nights where we used to write and laugh, and talk, and laugh again, and began imagining, and creating, with my promises of taking him far away in a car, where we could go living elsewhere, alone, to make him happy. But, truth was... we were just making me happy. Because... It was me. All for me.

And, would you want to know another thing?

I knew. And it hurt.

It was my fault I lost him, it was my fault I couldn't keep him, it was me and my possesiveness. It was me and my constant need of him.

I let my head land against the dark wood of the desk, my skull sounding loudly against the hard material. I let my eyes slid close with a dispassionate, defeated shrug. I felt my muscles giving into my inner pain, my already jaded, useless train of thoughts.

I had lost him.

I felt warm, thin, bitter water clouding my common coffee orbs, still protected beneath the eyelids. I felt the salty water slipping from my eyes to fall down my cheeks, to end up against my oh so beloved papers, guardians of my love-stories, of my fantasies, of my deep thoughts. I let my own hands release their grip from... whatever I was grabbing, and let them rest on the top of the wood, exhausted. I was tired of being me.

I wanted to cry.

The night urged me to do so.

And I had lost him.

I hated me, and my promises of a better life, I hated me, and my inability to share him, I hated me. Me.

For I lost him.

-C.M.