Violeta Noir

If you're reading this, there is still time. Your son will be here two months, and you have seven months to execute the plan you told me about. Seven months to build the life you've described; seven months to decide where the little boy ends and where the man begins.

For four years, we kept finding our way back to one another. At least, that's how it looked. You often told me I was the one who threw you away. You said I spoke in riddles, that I drove you crazy, that you never wanted to make me cry. I believe you meant those things when you said them. But love isn't measured only by what we mean. It's measured by what we repeatedly do.

What I experienced was different.

Every time fear, guilt, grief, or overwhelm entered your life, I lost my place in it. Somehow I always became the easiest thing to let go of, and somehow we always found each other again. I accepted that pattern for far too long because I loved you.

I used to believe we kept rebuilding our bridge. Then I stopped building it. I stopped reaching first. I stopped repairing the silence. I stopped finding another way back.

When I did, I realized there wasn't a bridge.

There was only me.

This manuscript isn't meant to punish you or convince you to love me. I've never doubted that you do. It's my attempt to show you what it felt like to stand on the other side of a bridge I thought we were building together, only to discover I had been carrying most of its weight.

I still believe the man I met is capable of becoming the father your son deserves and the partner he once told me he wanted to be. I still want to stand beside that man. But I can't carry us there anymore.

If you build the bridge, you'll know where to find me.