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I am you. I may not speak or move, but I am you. I know how you feel, what you think. I need you like you need me: me to be and you to pour your heart out. You cry. You cry on the words, in the words. Are you really thinking in giving him the letter? Will he understand the pain in your words, or your inclined handwriting caused by the hurry of knowing your travels bags are packed near the front door wanting for you?

You stopped writing. No, my dear. What you saw was not an illusion. I am you, remember? A pain like that is not caused by an illusion. Spell it out, say everything you need to say and leave him. A man like that does not deserve you.

You keep crying. That bothers me. I no longer wish to stay. There is too much pain. How can I be him? No! Don’t leave me! I didn’t stop feeling just because you dropped me on the letter. Nor even when you took your travel bags and left! Don’t leave me behind!

This new silence bothers me. It didn’t before, but now it does. Stunned, I realize that there’s something else in the letter, an ink stain that was not there before. God, I was broken inside out. And now, without you even imagining it, my pain joins yours. I don’t blame you. The pain was too much, the one you felt. I don’t wish to be useful for him anymore. Let him see. Let him see well how he broke us both.

Podes ler a versão portuguesa deste conto aqui.