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"Why don't you want me anymore?"

It was the same question he'd asked three years ago, on that night. It was the same question he'd never stopped asking me.

He stood in the kitchen doorway, the same way he always had done, leaning on the left of the frame, feet crossed and head slightly tilted, waiting till I found an answer.

"People just grow apart", I said, "It's just the way things go. we were good, then we were okay, then...we just weren't anymore."

He smiled in that way he always did when he could tell I wasn't being honest.

"You mean you got bored with me? But you didn't want to tell me? Because you didn't want to hurt my feelings?"

"Yes. I'm sorry, I should've told you everything, but somehow I never found the right time"

He smiled again. He always smiled when I lied, so why did I keep on lying?

"There were plenty of times. There were a dozen right moments every day. All you had to do was say you weren't happy, and we could've talked it over. You knew I'd listen."

He was leaning against the fridge, mug of coffee in hand, dressed for the office, the way he used to stand and chat before leaving for work.

"There was someone else. It never went anywhere but...."

"So you met someone else, and wanted them. That doesn't tell me why you didn't want me anymore. It doesn't tell me why you couldn't talk about it."

He was back in the doorway, in those battered jeans and trainers he'd worn when we first met.

"It just...seemed easier."

"Easier? You mean it was easier to keep you and me hanging on for months before I had to ask you what was wrong? I had to take you by the hand and ask you whether you still cared."

"Yes and I said I did!"

He smiled. A different smile this time.

"Yes you did. And I knew it wasn't true. So I asked you why...but you didn't say anything. So I left."

"I didn't know what to say. I didn't know what I was feeling."

"So why didn't you say that? I always listened. You could always talk to me."

"No I couldn't! You listened and then you told me what to do. Every time."

"I always told you to be sure what you really wanted, and then do it."

"Yes exactly. And I didn't know how to be sure. I didn't know what I wanted! But you just kept listening at me! Forcing me to say something when I didn't know what to say."

"I never..."

"...Or if I had anything to say at all. You...you always made me tell you what I was thinking, what I was feeling, what I wanted. You never let me have any...privacy!"

He took a sip from his coffee mug and smiled, waiting for me to go on.

"Get out of my head! Get out!"

I stopped screaming at him, realising he was gone.

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That was an extraordinary painful read for me. I'm not sure how it'll affect others, but I know why it felt like I was kicked in the stomach with a steel toed boot.

I guess I should congratulate you for getting to me. That's the sign of a really good author. Making your audience FEEL is hard.

Right now, I'm just angry that you made me feel something that I wanted to stay buried.

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