I feel stupid telling you what happened, especially when you were there to live it. However, if I don’t tell you one specific event as the actual reason why we can’t be together, it feels like all those letters are useless.
I hate the idea of just leaving with no explanation. It’s not fair. It feels easy. Too simple. In a way, after being together with someone for a while, not many things can be too simple.
Does that sound sad?
I’m really sorry, not just for the sad statement, not just these poorly written lines, not just for this cliché, not just for leaving. I’m sorry for everything.
I’m sorry for not trusting you. Today you told me you had a job problem. You were angry at something, angry at the fact that we were ordering pizza. Who gets angry at pizza? You were mad that one of our guests is only going to arrive tomorrow, yet is paying for tonight’s reservation. Who gets angry at getting extra money for no work? You do.
I had to get it out of you. I’m going to use a terrible comparison, but I had to get it out of you terribly. Getting the information out of you was like squeezing (or popping? What’s the verb here?) a particularly fat pimple. It wasn’t easy or pretty and the end result wasn’t pleasing in anyway. However, that was the only form to get you to tell me you had screwed up at work. You programmed something wrong. I didn’t care so much about the what, it didn’t seem to matter? The how mattered. You looked at me after explaining the technicalities and said: “Now I think they want to fire me.”
I said nothing, because I was already feeling like a nagging wife, even though I’m not either of those things. Not a wife, and not nagging. Who could blame me? You were so angry and I had to know.
“And we can’t have the AirBnB being the only breadwinner in this house,” you said. “That would be ridiculous.”
I kept listening. However, I disagreed. I know our guests and our apartment. It wouldn’t be ridiculous. We could invest and make solid money with it. Still, I had my mind made up. You don’t like people nagging. I know that it’s hard to talk about the future with me, because we don’t know if the government will allow me to stay here. I know it’s hard to try to figure out where everything stands and you don’t want the pressure. But I need to know things.
The problem is not so much the fact that you may get fired. We all get fired one day, or quit our jobs. We all need change.
The problem is that knowing that information about me took a nasty pimple metaphor. Why couldn’t you tell me?
I’m not stupid. I know you care about me and the imaginary baby of possibilities that is the baby and our actual lives.
I’m sorry for wanting us to be more straightforward. Clearer. Maybe it’s an Irish thing. I hate writing this, because I can’t ask if your emotional mess is some Irish thing. Probably not.
You know, a couple paragraphs earlier, maybe what I meant is that after being together with you for a while, nothing is simple. And that’s reason number four.
I’m really, really sorry,