Where I don't let anyone go

Do you remember the couple who betrayed each other? 

You do. No, you do. You know, in 1984.

What was her name? Jill? Something boring, right? Or was it something unbelievable? He certainly wasn't George.

Anyway. We don't need to be them. Or at least, we are them. But we don't need to pretend the way they did.

You don't need to metaphorically put your hand around my waist. Not to check if something lingers. Not to ease my pain. The pain is gone anyway - we betrayed each other, right? So why would pain remain. 

Lies of omission. This has been swirling around in my head the past few weeks. And only today did I realise that I've also been guilty. Not then. Not with you. Well, perhaps. In fact, certainly. What's that they say about planks and eyes?

So I guess, we did, both, betray each other, after all.

So what's with this checking in nonsense? What's with the digital reactions, the likes, the views? 

It's okay to move on. It's okay to go, okay, we did that, and now it's over.

I know you didn't want for it to be over. I didn't think I did either.

Julia!

Just like Julia and what'shisface, really. 

You asked me once if I believed in God. I think we were eating toast in your cousin's kitchen. I think it was the first time I'd ever eaten peanut butter and jam on the same piece of bread - aged 33. 

It was sunny. Maybe we'd already sorted out the washing. Maybe I'd already sat with my legs in the sun. Maybe we'd already sat on the floor together. Maybe you'd already appreciated the space between my thighs. Maybe you'd already kissed me directly afterward. The chronology is blurry. The image remains.

I tried to explain it to you - it's so complex. When you've been raised religious, and been told that one day, you may betray God, and that's it. For eternity. You're done. You know the story - or perhaps you don't. Perhaps you don't even know Julia? - but the story. It's about a prophecy that someone will deny God three times. And then a rooster crows. Don't ask me, I'm not the woman to ask. 

But anyway. When you've been told this - that it could happen! One day, you could deny the Almighty Creator. And you don't want that to happen. That can't happen. You can't lose faith if you wish to be saved. So you're fearful of ever not believing.

And then one day... Perhaps you don't. But this has been a core part of your identity, your whole life. You've heard God. Felt God. Seen God's presence in your life. But now? Well... There's a lot to let go of - not just faith.

But I'm not sure you really heard all that over the peanut butter.

But I think that's what you're doing now. You were scared of us having something. You told me so. I'm scared of the L word. I had to ask you what you meant. I genuinely didn't understand. But you also didn't want to let go. I think you may have been scared of wanting to want to let go.

But it's arrived. Surely it has. Surely the time is now. 

I'm probably not the best to ask, mind you. I, being the one who hates slow deaths, and all that. I, the one who will push you away when you dare to hurt me. Fuck you for trying. 

So anyway. If the time is now. If you're clinging on because you're scared of not clinging on. Just open your fingers. Let go.

We don't need to pretend like Julia and - let's call him Peter.