Just over a month ago, my ex (who left me for another girl - a perfect, perfect girl) walked back in and told me he wanted to fight for me, that he didn't care, that none of anything that has gone before really has to matter. I cheated on him with another man, I didn't tell him for the longest time, I just sat on that information like it was a pot that might never boil over. The guilt, it had me in lockdown and I was forever sad and angry and I never felt as though I deserved any of my giant's affections. We split quite simply. He invited me to go see him perform in a show. I did. He went home with another girl. I puked for three weeks solid. He never spoke to me after that, only to say that we had to move on and that he didn't really love me. And after two and a half months, I was finally beginning to get a grip. I could see him and my heart didn't beat at twice its normal rate, I didn't feel like strangling him and loving him twice as much as I ever did. He followed me to a bar and he kept me up all night with his worries. I sat on the floor near the fireplace, well away from him. I must have smoked thirty cigarettes. He cried. I cried. I'm ashamed to say it, I crawled up on his lap and I held him exactly like I used to. He wondered how I'd gotten so small and I told him I'd had my heart broken. You see, how it goes is this: he wanted to have sex with somebody else. Even the score, I guess. And he was on some sort of high, realising that maybe I wasn't the only good thing (turned bad) that could ever happen to him. So he never came back. He dug a deep hole, pushed me in and pretended not to see me cry as I resigned myself to the situation, sat there and took it as he covered me in clay. And it's now, after all the newness and excitement has dwindled, after lust becomes just another routine, after she realises she can tell him what to do and he'll listen - that's when his heart breaks. When I'm coming to terms with things, accepting things, moving on. It was six years of togetherness. We grew up together. My suicide attempts. My depression. His mother's cancer. Her death. My dropping out of college. His alcoholic brother. Ringing the bell in the churchyard in the dead of night because goddamn, it made us feel alive. We ran and hid in a ditch and giggled as people in the surrounding houses filled their windows with silhouettes, peering out for the culprits. He told me a story once about a dog, and he carried it on for months. Every now and again he'd fill in a few more of the details, but really, all I can remember is a shitty story about a dog walking down the road. It was the best story I've ever heard. I still sleep with the elephant teddy he gave me when I woke up in hospital about five and a half years ago. It fits just so in my hand. I feel unwell when I misplace him. I live in a small town with a small number of good friends. We shared many things. Even in an effort to not be a part of each others lives, given our hometowns and our lack of distance, we still share a lot. It's difficult to cut him out. What brought me to this entry is that I know he's currently a mess. I'm not sure if it's because of me, mostly, or if there are other factors involved. I have dreams about walking in and picking back up right where we left off. When he calls my name, he won't have to muffle it in a way so that it sounds like his perfect girl's names. He told me that with her, all he tries to do is mould their relationship into a continuation of what we had. He told me that one day I'll have his babies. Much as I hated the bastard after all those years together, much as I wished him dead sometimes, all the tears, the thousands and thousands of tears, I love him. That's all. I can't help it. I really, truly love my giant.