Short one this time, friends! Hope you enjoy. Happy reading!
His eyes opened very suddenly. He had no idea what time it was, nor how long he had been asleep, but the sun was still out, so it couldn't have been that long. He hadn't wanted to fall asleep, but it had been so long since he had slept, and he was very satiated and very comfortable tangled up with Fiona in his bed. He knew a few things almost instantly. First, he knew that everything that had transpired over the course of the day had been very much real and very much incredible. He also knew that it was probably a huge mistake. Lastly, he knew, without a doubt, that he was once again alone in his house.
He felt completely stupid for having expected anything else. She had done exactly what she had always done best, use him in every way she possibly could and then leave before she had to deal with any of the consequences. She had told him she would go, of course, but was it so wrong of him to have expected her to say goodbye first? Probably. He wondered, yet again, why he let her do this to him, over and over. She said that she loved him, but how can you hurt somebody that you love, over and over again? And he most definitely was hurt, not to mention angry.
He dragged himself out of bed and pulled his jeans back on, but his shirt was missing. Of course it was. It's what she had been wearing when he fell asleep. He hadn't minded then. He thought that she looked much better in his shirts than he himself did. Her tiny body was practically swimming in the fabric, and he remember laughing at her, but really, it had just turned him on, so he really hadn't minded. But he sure as hell minded now. It was his favorite shirt, and now it would probably smell of apples. He supposed that he would find it folded neatly on a chair somewhere, maybe with a quick "thanks for the fuck" note attached. He fastened his jeans and began the search.
He didn't see it anywhere. But sitting atop his kitchen table was a note, written in her perfectly neat handwriting. It was much longer than he expected it to be. How many words did she really need to tell him to fuck off? He picked up the note and went to his trusty couch to read his very own Dear John letter.
I must, yet again, apologize to you. I know that it is monumentally cruel to share what we shared and then leave you sound asleep with no explanation. Jesus, it seems like all I do these days is apologize to you, but have you ever been in a situation where there seems to be no right answer, no way out? I believe that you have, and I believe that you know I am just trying to fight my way through this.
I will not leave you with flowery words or declarations of love and devotion. You would hate that, and you already know full well how I feel. I will just say that I am sorry that I didn't wake you up, that I didn't say goodbye. I knew if I did, you would argue with me and try to get me to stay. I couldn't let that happen, because I knew that everything you would have to say would make sense and I would probably cave. I wish so badly to stay here with you, and I would give anything to make that so…anything except our daughter.
Know that I hope more than anything that this letter is not our last goodbye. I will fight like hell to get back to you, Love. And between now and then, I will keep you close to my heart. Also, I hope you don't mind, but I am keeping the shirt.
He read through the letter once, and then again, more slowly. And then again, and again, and again, until he had memorized it. Setting it on the coffee table in front of him, he leaned back on the couch, and then Filip, the man who could count on his fingers the number of times he could remember shedding tears, buried his face in his hands and cried.