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I can’t stop thinking about Chris. I’m not sure why lately, perhaps just the want of feeling I’ve been feeling. Rightly or wrongly, he’s the man in my life so far I felt, for a brief time, the most attracted to. I felt alive, in every part of me. And for a moment, I felt what might just be the agonising ecstasy of what could be called love. For a time, I thought it was returned too.

Rightly or wrongly, he’s now the benchmark for how other men are measured. And for reasons beside his 6 ft 4 frame, most don’t shape up.

It’s little details I keep remembering. Isn’t it odd how, in every stage of a relationship, it’s the details which can hurt us the most? They’re the barbs, the cruel little stings which work their way under our skin and spread their poison. Now, things I adored about him are stinging jibes of pain, because I have to recall them and know I’ll never think of them with joy again. Because he’s not mine. He’s not mine and he never will be.

I remember how proud he was when he spoke of his army officer training. How he would take my hand in his great paw and hold it so tightly. How at dinner he simply stared into my eyes and smiled. How I melted inside and felt the warm glow of being young and desired in the cold, bleak vastness of London.

The jokes we shared that will now will be forgotten.

The things I planned that are just dust on the wind now.

The warmth in my bed that’s now only in my mind.

Am I memory to him? Am I a lingering ghost that he thinks of with affection? Or am I the furious harpy that told him never to contact me again.

But want to hear the truth? I could never bring myself to delete him from Facebook. He never used it really, but I couldn’t sever that last channel of contact. I had to leave one tiny avenue of hope open back in February when we ended things. When he ended things, in the most cowardly way possible. Then, I noticed the other day that he’d disappeared from Facebook. We never messaged. Truthfully, I only once saw an update from him, but he’d gone. Maybe he’d deleted it or maybe he’d blocked me. I’ll never know.

All I know is that I miss him, so deeply. My own pride wouldn’t allow me to forgive him for the way he ended things, but secretly, private, I miss him so. No man after has been man enough to make me feel what I felt for him.

But what do I do?

How do I stop myself pairing up every potential man against his, admittedly tall, stature? How do I exorcise him from my mind?

I wish he would come back, but I also know that such a thin only happens in the wilds of modern fairy tales.

And while London may be a land of wonderment, opportunity and man, many fantastical things, I know that wishing he would return to love me is pure fiction.

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