Goodbye, my lover

Some say writing is a process. I disagree: it’s a relationship. For the past six weeks, I’ve been involved in the most intense romance of my life: a full-time engagement to my Master’s thesis.

And by full-time, I mean 24/7. He’s not letting me get my solid eight hours – sometimes I’ve woken up at 4am, drafted a genious note on my phone and drifted back to Feather Islands. I don’t only spend the full working day just me and him, but he’s also made his way under my skin. He’s always with me anywhere I go: running by the canal at sunset, playing Cards against humanity at Talent Square, getting my weekly update on the latest Finnish gossip on the phone with my mom.

This relationship hasn’t definitely been a bed a of roses. I might have developed an unhealthy obsession on him, and he’s demanding way too much of me.

It’s like being in love with a narcissist. My friendships have suffered severely, as I’ve chosen to dedicate myself to my lover in the quiet corners of the library instead of trying out the new icecream flavours in Intermezzo. Speaking of eating, I’ve been neglecting that aspect of my life for the past weeks, and replaced homemade green smoothies with Tony’s Chocolonely. Scrambled eggs has become my new go-to breakfast/lunch/dinner, and I’ve lost all the energy to embark on culinary explorations. Luckily, my fiancée doesn’t seem to mind the dull diet; he just wants me to get back to him from the lunch break as quickly as possible. 

But I can’t keep the rose-coloured glasses on for much longer. This love affair is destroying me, and I need to become a strong, independent woman again.

The break-up is going to leave me clueless about what to do with the sudden increase in free time. I’m afraid that I’ll spend the sunny May weekends sitting in front of my laptop, riddled with separation anxiety.

Even though nothing is good enough for him and I find myself polishing the footnotes on Sunday nights, tomorrow is the day we must part ways. After the submission, there’s no turning back.

Well, in a couple of weeks he’ll be knocking on my e-mail door, praying to let him in again. Weak as I am, I’ll caress him for a week or two and fix the childish mistakes of our first attempt.

And then cut the cord for good.


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