An Ode To A Fuckboy

Number three was somehow a very complicated and dramatic one, but also one that I wouldn’t want to miss…

“Dear Fuckboy,

I have known you for a while now, and I must admit that our “relationship” has changed since it all started. However, that doesn’t change the fact that you are indeed a fuckboy, one of the bad ones. One of those who don’t show it at first and then stab you in the back. You don’t see them coming

I didn’t see you coming.

Our relationship is confusing yet so simple at the same time.

You call and come over. You stay the night.
I call and you come over. You stay the night.

It hasn’t always been this way. We lived together. You would knock on my door the nights you didn’t manage to pull another girl. Did I care? Yes, but I also liked you more than I should have, so I kept my mouth shut and let you fuck me anyway.

The nights you did pull – I could hear you “shagging” three doors down the hall – I cried quietly into my pillow. Sometimes I wished you would hear my sobs, my cry for help, and that you would finally stop hurting me.

Yes, you hurt me.

Anyway, you are my number three. It has been more than a year since our first time and our last time wasn’t that long ago. We were never in a relationship, you didn’t want one. Apparently, I am “not the kind of girl [you] would have a relationship with.”

What does that even mean?

I thought about what you said for several months but I never quite understood what you meant, until now. I realised that you’re not the kind of guy I would want to be in a relationship with either. You smoke too much, you drink too much, you take too many drugs, don’t take anything serious, and simply don’t care enough.

Nevertheless, you kept coming back and I kept letting you back in. After not talking for weeks, you would call me drunk and tell me that you miss talking to me, miss having sex with me. Let’s be honest here, you could have just said you missed me, but that would have meant too much, right?

You were the first guy I slept with who ended up as not just another one-night stand. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t let go, held on for too long and didn’t want to move on. I admit that I was still hoping that we would work out after all, but that was months ago.

I stopped hoping.

The thing with us is, it was always “more than just sex,” you said so yourself.

We trust each other. Even though you have done so many shitty things that I probably shouldn’t trust you.
We care about each other. At first I cared more about you than you about me but that’s not the case anymore.
We know things about each other that not many other people know.
You let me cry on your shoulder, you listen and give me advice, even if another guy is the reason why I am upset.
You give me what I need. I give you want you need. Most of the times we need two completely different things.

We don’t work. We will never, but somehow for a few hours once in a while us is exactly what we need.

I know you.
You know me.

It was in the middle of the night when you called me after not seeing me for a while. I told you I was seeing someone and that I wasn’t alone. Did you care? No, you insisted on coming over for a few minutes anyway – in and out that would be it, literally. I didn’t let you, for obvious reasons. You were drunk, desperate, unreasonable.

There was a part of me that enjoyed telling you that I wasn’t by myself. That someone other than you was keeping me company, that someone else made me happy. A part of me wanted to see your face when you realised that you lost the last chance of ever calling me yours. You shouldn’t be surprised. In the end, it was you who told me to move on.

I did. I moved on.

However, I know that you’ll be there for me if that guy turns out to be just as much a dickhead as you are. You’ll come over, hold me, talk to me, comfort me, and as soon as the tears stop you’ll fuck me, and leave me with nothing.

The girl next door.”

Letter No. 4 …