As you have noticed, i have not been quite right recently. as if i no longer recognized myself in my own existence. a terrible feeling of anxiety, which i cannot really fight, other than keeping on going to try to overtake it, as i have always done.when we met, you laid down one condition: not to become "the fourth"
i stood by that promise: it has been months since i now have seen the "others", because i obviously could find no way of seeing them without making you one of them.

i thought that would be enough, i thought that loving you and your love would be so enough so that this anxiety - which constantly drives me to look further afield and which means that i will never feel quiet and at rest or probably even happy - would be calmed when i was with you, with the certainty that the love you have for me was the best for me, the best i have ever had, you know that. i thought that my "disquiet" would dissolve into my writing so that i could find you. but no. in fact it became even worse, i cannot even tell you the sort of state i'm in. so i started calling "the others" again this week. and i know what that means to me and the cycle that it will drag me into.

i have never lied to you and i do not intend to start now.

there was another rule that you laid down at the beginning of our affair: the day we stopped being lovers you would no longer be able to envisage seeing me. you know this constraint can only ever strike me as distratrous and unjust (when you still see R and J...) and understandable (obviously): so i can never be your friend.

but now you can gauge how significant my decision is from the fact that i am prepared to bend to your will, even though there are so many things - not seeing you or talking to you or catching the way you look at people and things, and your gentleness towards me - that i will miss terribly. whatever happens, remember that i will always love you in the same way, my own way, that i have ever since i first met you: that it will carry on within me and, i'm sure, will never die.

but it would be the worst kind of masquerade to prolong a situation now when, you know as well as i do, it has become irreparable by the standards of the very love i have for you and the one you have for me, a love which is now forcing me to be so frank with you, as final proof of what happened between us will always be unique.

i would have liked things to have turned out differently.

take care of yourself.