I refuse to say his name. It brings back memories, playful and painful, loving and absolutely cold. I have stopped talking about him. Everyone and their brother is probably sick of hearing about him.

Weep, mope, get angry, feel self loathing, wonder what is wrong with me, more self loathing, weep, feel sorry for myself, repeat. How many months?

To distance myself from him I stopped saying his name, and simply began referring to him as The Man Person. I never had to explain it; it was clear who I meant. It was simultaneously affectionate, cute, and impersonal.

I would longingly speak of him until I realized how unhealthy the whole business was. Really I realized it was unhealthy months ago when I decided I was happier fantasizing about him than actually being with another man. But then again, I have never been a health nut.

Thinking about it one evening, and probably in a state of anger, it dawned on me that I had spent the larger part of the past months making excuses for him, continuing to adore him while getting little to nothing in return. My remarks of missing him getting outright dismissed and ignored, essentially the nonverbal equivalent of “fuck off,” and somehow got translated into “I am sure he cares in his own way.” The fact that I wasn’t even worth a five second text message simply didn’t register with me. Oh, I am sure he is just busy, or tired, or something. That is perfectly logical, right?

We had a wonderful time together while it lasted, but then, when I no longer entertained him, he threw me away. I know that is not how it happened (and maybe even unfair on my part), but that is what it feels like.

He left because he didn’t like X. I changed X. Then I changed Y and Z. I switched to the cryllic alphabet and learned hieroglyphics. So where is he? Oh, yes… that is right… it is not X, it is me. I was the problem, and that cannot change. And I have no excuses left. He is not here.

And I am an idiot.