I followed both my heart and my moral compass. I disclosed to the love of my life what I had done because I cannot move forward with half-truths. I told the newfound object of my lust that I couldn't see him anymore, which pulled at the soft threads of my character and hurt me intensely, but weeks on and that feeling is no longer an issue. Last weekend I drove to Dublin to be with the man that I've loved for longer than a decade. I arrived on Friday. It was the first time we ever spent together where neither of us was breaking some sort of rule. He looks exactly the same, despite it having been over six years. He is so beautiful. I love him I love him I love him. We spent three days together. We walked for miles and miles and miles. We visited the zoo. He brought me to see baby elephants like he'd promised. We brought each other for dinner. I stared at him every time he looked away. I don't want to forget his face, or his hands, or the shape of his head. We slept in the same bed for the first time in over ten years. I awoke in the mornings with his arm around me, with him pulling me close, despite the fact that I don't often love to be touched. But I did on those occasions. The sun erupting through the curtains. His nose. His lips. His chest. The way he knows something about everything. The way he buttered my toast without asking. The way he takes his coffee the same way that I do. He brought me miles around parks that he grew up next to. We found baby birds hidden away in a pond, following their mother around and he happily stood and stared at them with me for far too long. We visited museums. We drank beer. We held hands on the couch. He let me watch a Robin Williams documentary. He rested with me when I was in more pain. He was forceful and he was tender. On Monday, we walked for hours around his local park. We went for coffee and wandered and sat on a rock staring into the trees and we spoke about only inconsequential things. I apologised for seeming less than present or engaged, and we blamed it on my physical pain, but I knew that that was our last time for a very long time and I couldn't stomach it. I told him that I would leave at seven. We were lying on the couch, top to toe, The Simpsons or Futurama on the television, and I rose to put on my shoes and to put the rest of my things in the car. He promised me that he'd make it less than a year this time and I cried without wanting to but without trying to stop myself. He pulled me in from behind, and the thirty-five-year-old man that has cried two times in his adult life changed that total to three. I can't believe I looked into his eyes while he cried, and that I was the reason for those tears. And so I drove home. And I left him behind, for him to fly two thousand miles away again. I can't eat. I can't sleep. I can't do this.