I Can Make You Love Me (Short Story)

(2)

I didn't mean to. I didn't mean to destroy you. But life grew and changed, just like we did. College was difficult but we both managed. We moved to a different city, and jumped reluctantly into the real world. We were both scared and inexperienced. But we held hands and waded through the difficulty of life for the next few years.

Soon, we became stressed and failed at showing affection towards each other. We fought a lot. We said what we hated each other. And every time I saw your sad eyes after our fights, I didn't feel pained anymore. I just felt numb. I still loved you, but my heart had turned bitter.

We would argue and we would hate. We hissed terrible words. We stung each other like wasps. You hit me, I punched you harder. I left. I got drunk. I cheated on you. In my drunken daze, I looked for the love that used to be between us. I looked for it in prostitutes and more alcohol and even a few disgusting drugs.

I realized I would never find it. I would never find the love that you once gave me.

I was the one to destroy you.

You told me, after everything had eventually settled, that you still loved me. Even after I went back home drunk and hurt you. Even after I got away with it. Even after I moved out and got my life back on track. Even after we talked calmly to each other in a cheap café. You said you still loved me after all of that.

But you told me something that I would never dare to forget. You changed my life, and I hate that you did.

But I know, that day we talked in the café, that you weren't okay. I knew because I wasn't okay, and the two of us are so similar, that it made sense you weren't either. And I saw it in your eyes. That pain, that sadness - it was in your dead, tired, dark eyes, which showed that you have had too many sleepless nights. I wondered if you could see my pain, because I too struggled to fall into the dark surroundings of sleep. I too was not okay. 

I told you that I still loved you, too, and I asked if we could try things again. We both needed each other, and you knew that. But you shook your head and there was something - a hint - in your expression. We should give it time. Let's spend more time away from each other's lives and then we'll talk about starting a relationship again. Hey... Maybe we can meet up here once a month? I'll call you.

Your voice was shaky, giving off another a hint. Damn, I should've known before it was too late. I should've fucking known. But instead, I stared at you walk stiffly, out of the café, out of my life. I was completely oblivious. I actually believed you, I actually thought you'd fucking call me. But the only call I received was from the police department. They told me you hung yourself.

That day in the café, that was the last time I've ever talked to you. You were hinting something, I knew it, but I wasn't sure what. It turns out, you had planned to kill yourself that night. In the small note, you told me that you just needed to talk to me one last time, to see if I still loved you. I told you that I did in the café, and you just needed to hear it.

I wish it had been enough to save your life.

A couple of days after the call, I visited the cheap café. Your note was in my shaking hand. I was still in shock, but that didn't prevent me to sob awfully every single day. I was tired from lack of sleep, but I felt like death was the only thing that would relieve my terrible exhaustion. And as I sat in the café, ignoring the note in my hand - I'd already read it thousands of times - I tried to get things straight in my head. 

You loved me. I still love you. 

The last thing your note read was something awful. Something terrible. Something true. You destroyed me.

I destroyed you. And I ended up destroying myself.