He

A flash comes before my eyes.
I see that I woke up to a pair of deep-brown irides, staring at me. Was it an accurate verb, "staring"? Usually, when people stared, I would feel uneasy, but not then. Then, I was happy.

"Good morning, angel," said he. It was his morning routine. He would compliment me and I would blush. No matter how many times he did, I would still buy it. He, then, would proceed to softly brush his lips against mine, leading to a series of tongue wrestling and - at least 5 mornings a week - love making.

I thought I would know if someone faked affection.


Another flash comes replacing the earlier one.
It was one of those days, when he would slam his fist against some furniture and raise the pitch of his voice to call me an idiot. It started with me complaining about how little time he spent for me if not for sex. It ended with him saying that he wouldn't need sex anymore - at least not from me - because there was this woman he already started sleeping with.

I did not think that something true could slap me harder than if it were a lie.


Here I am, back to my reality. I survive, or at least I try. Sometimes I make it through the day, but sometimes I end up weeping to my sleep. What makes me sad, more than anything, is that I believed every single "L" word he uttered. I believed every reason he gave me for not being there when I was down. He made me convinced that if he could spend 25 hours a day with me, he would.

The most pathetic part about all this is that even after all he has done to me, I'm still questioning myself if I did the right thing by leaving.