CAra Ester,
Mine is a story that I don’t know how to call. It’s not a relationship, it’s not an adventure. I just know it exists. He is married to children, I live. Ours is one of those stories that start badly, they stop, then they come back. It has been going on for years: three now, more almost two in the past, with a break of ten in the middle.
I knew it when He was already engaged and I still free; I had liked it for some time, he asked me to go out, I did it and I fell in love with it. It was immediately clear that he would never question his story, there was never a doubt, never an uncertainty, and I continued to see him anyway, clinging to the hope that sooner or later he would realize that he wanted something else, of wanting me. It didn’t happen. He went to live together, got married, and I with difficulty, I pulled myself out of it.
Relationships at risk right away?
Then I did what you do when you have to go on: I loved again, I built a healthier life, with someone who really wanted me. A quiet love but that did not burn on me like him. He, even while he wasn’t there, never completely disappeared … not from the head, not from the body and in fact he came back or rather: we are back.
Now You see when you can, you write little, without rules, without promises Because there is nothing that has a name, only an intermittent habit, comfortable for him and a little toxic to me. It looks like a perfect replay from the past: I who come back to making love with him but who, after all, would like something more, and he who calmly proceed with his life. Until the other day, for lunch, when – without knowing how – we ended up talking about that “we” never happened. I told him, in a more tired tone than accusatory: “I tried, you know? But you never fell in love with me.” And he, quiet, replied as if it were the most obvious thing in the world that yes, instead, instead He is in love. It is, it was, I don’t know. He said it calmly, without emphasis, as if there was nothing to explain, and then added that He is thus made of “ice”, that he is not seen but he feels inside.
Slip into the “if”
From there, as happens in these cases, we have slipped into the “if”: if the times had been different, we would surely be together. He would have liked it or at least we would have tried. To then add that who knows, if years ago things had gone differently, maybe then I would have tired of him and that point, what would he have done?
I always thought that she loved her, without the slightest doubt. That with me he lived only a whim before settling definitively. But inside, I admit it, I have always hoped that it was a matter of timing, of obliged choices, that simply did not feel like throwing a ready -made life in the air, a house already done, for something of uncertain – Me, far away, also with a house on delivery and without real certainties, too risky to be chosen. A perhaps wonderful but too uncomfortable. And after all with her so badly it was not there, on the contrary.
Since we started seeing us again, I thought I was a diversion again. A way to feel alive, desired, male. He likes, there is chemistry, and end there – I thought. But above all, I’m comfortable: there are, I don’t pretend, I don’t ask for anything. How much little self -esteem, Eh Ester?
But then if you go out, saying that it is not just sex, that I should understand it too, that it is evident. To him, perhaps, a man of few words. And I ask myself: if it’s not just sex, then what is it? Because between one “I want you” and the other spend days without a message, without a “hello, what are you doing?”.
So, Ester, I don’t know what to think anymore. Maybe I believe him – maybe I want to believe him – the moment he says. Maybe he really feels something, but it is a feeling that does not move anything, that remains there stationary, like one of those beautiful but crooked paintings, who never knows whether to adjust or let it go.
But will it be true? He was not losing me, he didn’t risk anything, he wasn’t even fear of it … Why then tell me something like this, he who usually avoids, changes speech, pretends to be nothing? Do I have to believe him?
He is a lover, yes – but not enough? What should I do, with these words that come without anything happening?
On the one hand it seems the confirmation that I had been waiting for for a lifetime. On the other, he leaves me exactly where I was: with the awareness that nothing will change. Do I have to believe in words but empty of actions?
Can a feeling that does not move anything is true? Can you call love something that has never had the courage to exist?
A hug, P.
Ester Viola’s answer
Dear
Dear P.,
But everyone escapes, everyone. From flour marriages, from secular relationships, from people you know too well. Why? Because what you don’t have at home is always better than you have between your feet. Beautiful, fresh, new, very fragrant.
I just don’t know anything, I have no answers. But one thing yes, and that is sure – because he learned in Paccheri (metaphorical). When they say that there is resistant and invincible sublime love, they are cracks, if they invent it for the benefit of the public.
A separate love, however, a hidden and possibly tormented means, that is good for the general trend. You even chosen the self -proclaimed lord of the snow. One who says “you know I’m ice”. But didn’t you get laughing? You didn’t tell him but how are you talking? It seems one of Temptation Island, the same script.
Why does it happen to you like that? We have said it several times – because there are two stadiums of happiness. One is peace – and you already have it. You had it. Except that peace is Moscia, what are you doing? He stands there still, immobile. It looks like a fatty plant. But in the end, for that they call it peace. And then one begins to ask himself, in the midst of all that peace, that terrible non-nucede-niente, if it is not true that the war is beautiful even if it hurts. It is not a nice job that of being uncontainable but we do this, it is not you, we are all. New things, new things, give us new things even if the old ones were better.
It is not said that it goes badly, of course. It can also end well, the war. That is, that you win, you are the destined, you two. Those stories that drag themselves for years without ever becoming solid, then become solid. And there life pulls the joke as a priest, puts you part of one of its most dandy secrets: that every relationship, even the most sparkling, ends in normal life.
Are you afraid of regrets? But ask who you want: the regrets of love are always only one. Because I didn’t hurry before. To take me back.
Life works like this, with a long series of very slow compensations. You have to wait and wait. Wait for you to pass, to feel better, then to feel good, then to see us a little clearer. We have our things in front of them and we don’t understand them, however strange it seems.