Hey. It's been a while since we last talked. This probably isn't the best way to do this. Actually, it might be the worst possible way to do this. I wrote and rewrote and wrote over this letter so many times and in the end I chose not to publish it. That is, until the police knocked on my door. So I mulled over what I would say to you in this letter. There's so much meaning in the small things. The twitches at the corner of your mouth. The sunlight illuminating the light brown whisps at the edges of your hair. The movements of your body as you shift around to find comfort in the fruitless air of discomfort. Even the clothing you choose to wear, because after all, there's little decisions in all of the small things. I saw you wear the shoes I bought you, last time. Decisions and choices. And they're awful. You're only allowed one choice for every decision. One that you make with imperfect, incomplete information, and there's no do-overs or walkbacks because as soon as you try you've fostered the conditions for a different, second decision, and the first can't be made again despite your choice having offered you all of the information you needed to make the best choice in the first place. All decisions are like that. Even the one where I chose to never see you again. Just another decision.

I've written before about audiences. Everything I've ever written has had an intended audience. After we broke up, I wrote a letter to you every single day, like I did for every day I was in-patient. I wrote about everything. About my thoughts and feelings and vulnerabilities. About my new job and new apartment and new life. About breaking up and begging for you back and being raped and groomed by someone I thought I could trust. I poured my heart and soul into those letters, with raw and bleeding honesty, like I had always done with you in our relationship. But those letters aren't for you, and you'll never see them. You lost that privilege. Those letters are for Keale; all the possible future Keales who need to remember the cost of vulnerability. But then, who is this for? This whole thing I'm writing now. I guess I'm still figuring that part out. Just another decision.

I cancelled our final meeting, just told you to never talk to me again, I would reach out first if I ever wanted to, some amount of years down the line. In truth, I wanted that meeting to happen. Desperately. My choice to cancel it was laden heavily with burden. I had to choose what was best for Keale but I haven't been the best caretaker, haven't been in the right headspace to do what's best for her. You told me to wait until you were ready and I chose to cut you away from her, because she was hurting deeply for every hour you made her wait. She's been a mess, you know? Fumbling her career, dwindling her health. Falling apart in her shitty apartment she was supposed to share with you. I can't stand to look at her. Her pallid appearance, pale complexion, flakey skin. The stress of trauma and heartbreak has taken everything from her. If I knew this would last forever, I would put her down like a dog. But I know it won't. Just another decision.

Why would I choose to communicate to you like this? Because if you don't cross my boundary, then you won't ever read it, and it won't ever hurt you. No contact means no contact, one way or another. I don't hate you, quite the opposite, I still love you with the same passionate fervor I had the months after we met and every month afterwards. My honeymoon phase never ended. I'm writing to you like this because I know the kind of person you are. You've always checked up on me, even after everything we've been through. You've read my social media posts. You've asked my mother about me. You even called a welfare check on me. And you will read this article, even though the title explicitly told you that you really shouldn't be here. You will do everything short of actually asking me how I’m doing. So I’m going to communicate to you too, on my own terms, because I want you to know exactly why I'm hurting so deeply. You don’t have to read it. In a way, I hope you do, and in a way, I hope you don't. But this is the pattern that has been etched into the slate of my mind; your low commitment to me and low risk to yourself, helping me with the leftover resources you have after managing everything else that's important in your life. Our relationship was never your highest priority like it was to mine. You never went to another concert with me, after telling me you would. You never started that Minecraft server, after promising to start one for us. You never spent another night with me, after leading me on with “when I get a job.” Those are just small things, small things. But I recognize patterns when I see them. You said you would move into this apartment with me as soon as you could, and when the opportunities came, you changed your mind. You said you would visit me whenever you could when I was rotting in that hospital, when I needed you the most, and you made one attempt and missed all the others. You said you wanted to be my family, to call my mom Mom and my dad Dad, to visit my grandfather's grave, to grow old together and tell this story to our grandkids, and… I hanged onto your every word like a body in the gallows but somehow, in some way, your family always came first, even though you couldn't bear to say you loved them, even though they hated me for every reason I loved myself, even though they called me a disgusting tranny and tried to coerce you into gay conversion therapy for the heinous crime of loving me. Your family came first. Just another decision.

I love you. It hurts so much to let you go, to say, “I don't want to hear from you anymore,” because the painful truth is I do. I want nothing more than your tender voice to call me your good girl, to tell me that I’ve been brave for surviving this long, to lie and say “I will change, I promise, I still want us to work out.” But I need to do what’s best for Keale, even if Keale craves your voice, your smell, your touch. I need time and space away from you until I can think about you without compromising my mental health. Don't call me or text me or check-in on me through other people. That’s my boundary. That's my choice. But I can't control yours. That's just another decision. Your decision.