Hello Leonard,

Today, I wiped my louvres clean, and I cleaned up my apartment. And I wondered what you would say if you were still here, if I’d never let you go. There is still that longing in my chest, in my breasts. Don’t get me wrong, I have been touched by other people after you. But I guess you left a mark, I guess you always leave a mark. I bumped into Uche -the one you cheated on me with- the other day, on my way out of the train station. We didn’t say much to each other but I started to see some of myself in her. There is the way that I touch my neck now, on the very spot you used to kiss. She touches it too, that very spot on her own neck. And that is how I know you leave a mark on whomever you touch. It is almost like you see us all as one, all the women you have been with. I have not met any other ex-girlfriends of course, I refuse to drive myself insane thinking about how I’m not the only one you’ve treated this way, but I do think of your ex-girlfriends and I wonder how many of them you drove mad, the way you seemed to have driven me mad even in your absence.

There are other things I do that include you, things that get me wondering what your opinion would be if you were here. Like sleeping in the attic. I have been sleeping in the attic every weekend, like we used to when you were here. I’m not sure why, if even it has anything to do with you. Sometimes I think that I simply had no routine for myself before you, that your coming into my life shredded into pieces whatever chances I had of making anything mine, and that when I sent you away, I sent all the parts of me that I eventually learned about away with you. And I blame myself, not entirely of course. I still blame my parents for who I am, and I blame you for the pain that you caused me -me and Uche- but I am learning to take responsibility for the parts that I play in the events that take place in my life, although to be frank, my life has always been quite uneventful. But anyway, I still sleep in the attic during the weekends, sometimes waking up in the middle of the night to do some star-gazing, even though it’s the middle of the winter now and the fog is barely clear enough to see past the top of the frangipani tree.

I did not forget to mention, I met your brother, the tall flirty one. He didn’t flirt with me this time. I wonder if it runs in your blood, pretending a woman means something to you knowing all along you have no intentions of treating them with any respect. I wonder if it runs in your blood, being a cold-hearted prick, I mean. I am not angry, I have gotten over you. I just have to do this, muse over what my life looks like without you now, because my therapist says I should.

I received your email, the one you sent while I ate roasted turkey with only Chima and her girlfriend because all the other people I’d invited were partnered up and celebrating Thanksgiving with their in-laws. I’m glad to know you began therapy, but I still hope the next several women you will meet break your heart like you did mine and Uche’s, and all the other women you cheated on us both with. I cannot deny though that catching the scent of your perfume on the flowers you delivered at my door did make me horny. I miss the way you touched me, how wild and carefree I have been in your arms. And I sometimes catch myself missing what I imagined our honeymoon would have been, you remember, don’t you, the honeymoon we could have had on Christmas day. We chose the Christmas day because you weirdly have something against holidays and you thought we should make this year’s about us. Should I have seen that as a concerning sign, as a need for you to make everything about yourself? I wonder what your therapist will diagnose you with, I wonder more if she’s a woman you are about to take advantage of. I wish you the worst, Leonard, but this letter is not about you.

This letter is about me, about how I’m doing okay without you. This is about how I was raised to be so codependent that it took you breaking my heart for me to learn to be enough for myself. And this is about how I am learning to be less hard on myself for mourning who I was with you. This letter is about me.

Christmas is in a few days now and I have decided I will not sit back and sulk over everyone having a life different from mine. Our honeymoon suite is still booked. I could never get myself to cancel the reservation, and when I finally summoned the courage to, I realized that this would be the first thing that I do without you. Not really the first, but it will be one of the firsts. Like I said earlier, I cleaned the louvres and the rest of my apartment. I didn’t mention that I listened to Nina Simone while I cleaned. Well, I just want to let you know: Nina is back on my playlist and you’re nowhere now to command, in that toxically enchanting voice of yours, that I listen to the artists you recommend. And I have been dancing too, and eating until my belly bulges out of my bodycon dresses. I quit the gym for a month. I will still go back, but first I need to learn to love my body as it is, before I begin again to mould it into what I want it to be.

Dear Leonard, the year is coming to an end, again without you. And it makes me happy, proud, that I have gone a year without hearing you make snarky comments about me, about who you think I am. Remember last Christmas? What we did that day? We danced to the music you’d just recorded at your brother’s studio -not the flirty one. And do you remember what you’d said? I remember because you said it to me, about me: you said you’d made the song for my gym sessions, that my belly was beginning to bulge and you did not want me to look out-of-shape. And I’d smiled because even though I’d just lost our baby, I knew what you’d said had come from a good place. I don’t think so anymore because I am no longer a dysfunctional woman who has no love for herself. But I mourn that woman, the woman that I was. And she’s the reason I kept the honeymoon suite, the reason I’m writing this letter to you. This is not about you, Leonard. This is me saving Christmas so I don’t lose it one more time.

I still think of Uche. I will be inviting her out with me for Christmas. I remember you talked about how it was one of the reasons you disliked her. “Because she’s not like you,” you’d said, as if I should have been grateful that the reason you’d come back to me was because you’d ‘tested the waters’ and realized no one was as naive and easily manipulative as I was. I hope she likes Christmas, I forgot to ask her because I’d been too caught in the moment looking for signs that you’d traumatized us both. But I will look up her number tonight and I will ask her.

Dear Leonard, it’s almost Christmas. And I am no longer yours.