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A post shared by annie miteva (@_minimalista) on Nov 15, 2017 at 9:08pm PST

I have thought of you a lot, today.

So often, I have missed you.

It’s inexplicably hard what happened. You were toxic, but I fell in love with you.

Some said you were a sinner, a manipulative golden man, a narcissist. But I didn’t trust their judgment.

I trusted the memory, the ghost of you, who you were in our beginnings. I trusted the memory of when you were at your highest, your kindest, your most loving.

So often, I have wondered if this version of you was real. I sometimes feel that after that beginning, I never saw “you” again.

I remember that I fell in love with the way that you looked at me. Your promises, too.

You see, I didn’t know exactly what love was in those innocent times. I wanted passion, I wanted to be impressed. I wanted someone who was magnetic.

Love, I thought, was fire and sparks. But I know now that love is also presence, staying, understanding one another—feeling safe and protected.

I know now that I misunderstood the idea of love; that’s why I found you.

I thought that our love would be crazy, because you were one in a million—so special and free. But the way you disappeared was one in a million, too.

As time passed, you refused to talk—even a word—about us. You decided to go without any proper farewell.

You chose to erase me.

I kept pursuing you, wanting you, desiring you, needing you. For years.

But you were a nomad. Your life was a spectacle. Your “love” was a story of back-and-forth—uncertain, unavailable, hesitant, unsure.

Still, I decided to trust your soul—the best, the highest of you. It’s hard to know what to trust when people are inconsistent, so I chose what gave me hope.

You were only certain to withdraw.

You made a multitude of promises, but never once did you move. Perhaps you were a storyteller. A novelist!

You wanted me, now I can feel, like sinners want their prey.

I had this ugly feeling that I ignored, that maybe I was a game. I just hope you were not playing consciously.

But then again, perhaps your soul had long been lost before I met you.

You taught me that love is not complex. People want it or they quit. People who want it do the work of growth together in the sacred container of the relationship. They evolve and mature together, or they are not fully in.

You taught me not to trust somebody’s words, but their energy and what they actually do about what they said.

I understood later in time—a painful but enlightening revelation—that if you had truly wanted us, chose us, you would behaved differently. You would have made some effort, instead of none.

This realisation was my way out, my freedom from the lure—the obsession of you.

I will never know if you loved me at least a little, or if you only blew random words to attract me—if we were true or only a fairy tale of my own making.

But I pray for your soul. More than I should, maybe.

I don’t know if you were lost, sad, or a narcissist. But I do know that when I think of you, I hope that even sinners find redemption, the divine, and healing.

Eventually.