a letter, bursting with passive aggressivity, that probably shouldn't be open (and makes me look like a bitch) but either way is one he'll never read

A,

It's been a year now. A year since I last spoke to you, more than that since I last saw you. I honestly thought I'd never be in the position to say that. Honestly believed that despite all the bullshit and the game playing we were at least, underneath all the layers of passive aggression, friends. Although you tried to keep in contact I wouldn't let you, I know that probably pisses you off, frustrates you to no end and seems incredibly of petty of me; it really isn't. In your mind you are exactly the kind of stand up guy who keeps in contact with the ghosts of relationships past, who has exes as friends. I know it's taken years of overcoming the scrawny kid who played Warhammer 40K with stolen game pieces, who got picked on. You are the product of years spent carefully stacking up layers self conviction, feelings of superiority and entitlement. Your opinions were a little too offensive, your humour a bit too crude, your arrogance too overpowering but everyone bought it, including me. It's pretty much the only thing I regret: that I never got to see the man, only the construction of the boy you tried so hard to leave behind.

And that's who you are, your own construction. It's not a criticism, we're all that way but I know that for you at least your unshakable views are something to hold on to. And that's why I can't speak to you: I'm not doing this to fuck with your world view. I'm doing it because I have no desire to bolster up your ego. I have no desire for empty emails containing life updates. I'm doing this because I remember how much it stung to find out you'd sent yet another unsolicited email to your first great love. And I know there's another girl now and, frankly: I want to give her all the help I can.

I think I kind of like your new girl, she seems pretty - if eerily similar to me, you traded up again it seems - and from what I can tell bright, funny and kind of cool. I hope she's strong, because it would have broken me to discover that the pet name you used for me (and you know I'm not talking about "honey" or "sweetie") once belonged to some other girl. Be nice to her. If she haltingly confesses something to you in the dead of night, something she's never had the guts to vocalise before, something that could come to define her, don't mock her for it. (Seriously, sugar: scorning me for being "a bit gay"? You cheated yourself out of at least one threesome that way. You really can be an idiot sometimes, you know?) Don't accuse her of hysteria, don't make her feel guilty for crying. Don't goad her into resenting her friends.

So now, accusations and recriminations done with, it's time for my confessions. Self indulgent I know, to burden you with them but here they are - take them if you will. You thought I was a terrible liar, that simply isn't true. I just let you believe it because it meant you never picked up on the big things. I never told you anything I didn't want you to know. I didn't throw up through "suspected morning sickness" it was guilt over the person you hadn't even noticed bringing up. I cheated on you because you would willingly state that you didn't love me and your smug assumption that I'd never be the one to leave combined with your lack of any semblance of jealousy made me want to tear off my own skin. I tore myself up over it for years, but now I don't care. Why? Because for the entire three years of our relationship I couldn't get you to just tell me you loved me, I had to beg and plead and wheedle it out of you. You were breaking down outside of clubs and telling her you made a massive mistake, that you still loved her, you were chastely sharing a bed with her when she stayed - sleeping in each others' arms. For all three years. (Honestly I wish you'd had the balls to just get it over with and fuck her. Don't worry, after I found out I did it for you.) Love trumps a drunken kiss don't you think?

Well, would you look at that? I guess I'm still a little bitter. Which means I really do have to make my final confession (I was hoping I wouldn't have to): When you moved away I knew exactly what I was doing. In the end, when I barely saw you, when you wouldn't reassure me, when you refused to give me a definite answer about an event I'd been planning for weeks, when I would come to see you every weekend and you'd disappear off leaving me alone in your room for hours upon end, when your new friends would be shocked to discover you even had a girlfriend, when you wouldn't come to London to see me unless you needed a place to crash, I could tell you were pushing me but I bit my tongue. It was really selfish, and I'm sorry, but I gave up too much of my time and energy for you to be the one who got all the sympathy. So I waited for you to end it.

How childish is that?

If it's any conciliation, I do still feel bad whenever anyone comments on how quickly I got over the break-up. This letter makes it sound awful, for the most part I was happy with you - and although I can barely remember what it was like when we were together (a fact that scares me every day) it wasn't all bad.

I thought after my confessions I'd tell you all the things that I do now, the foods I eat, the exercise I take, the things I drink that you tried and failed to get me to but I can't. In the beginning it was an attitude of "fuck you" (and I'll admit now that is pretty much the entire reason I now drink, and am dependent on, coffee) but somewhere along the line I started doing those things for me, and for me alone. It's really nothing to do with you anymore. It's a lot easier without someone looking over my shoulder though.

So goodbye and good luck. I feel I've spent the last few months waiting for this moment. My emotional state hasn't changed much - pretty much since October - but you know me well enough to know that it just wouldn't be fitting until it got to a proper anniversary. So there it is.

Take care of yourself.

Alex