Mariya Ali

Relationships have become hard for me. As I explore the different dimensions of being in a relationship, I realise how much the skeletons in my closet have affected me in this context. After all of the work that I have done over the past few years, this uncertainty seems to have taken me back to a point that I thought I had left in the dust.

I mustn’t live in the past. Although I intellectually know this, my instincts tell me to flight, rather than fight. Because fighting is exhausting. But I stay, because he whom I stay for is worth it. Yet with each “incident”, I feel myself slipping further and further away from getting what my heart desires. It’s a subconscious push, a shield that I have created, to prevent me from pain.

Once bitten, twice shy. Thrice just to rub salt in the wounds.

I only hope that I can overcome my dementors before the hourglass is empty.

And there I was, months ago, writing about how happy you were. Don’t get me wrong, I wish you no harm. It just stings, believing that it was just “me”. I see now, the same patterns. You say glass pieces, I say eggshells. Tomato, tomato. Potato, potato.

I feel sorry for you, for you’re nothing more than the latest victim. The next heart to be broken. I see through your writing, that your entire life has been sacrificed. Your words don’t speak of anything other than him or the things you do for him, as has been the case for months.

But deep down, a tiny part of me is satisfied.

I was right.