Day three back home. I’ve been good. I’ve been resisting drunken intentions, and staying home. I’ve agreed to meet with Honzik. No, I told him I wanted to meet. I don’t like things ending with an SMS I don’t remember writing and deleting.
I’m naively hoping he’s not as uncaring. That maybe he’ll not grin blankly when I cry. That maybe he won’t leave when I ask him to stay. That maybe he’d not stay when I ask him to leave. That he would pick up the goddamn phone when I need him to. That he would call when I disappear. That he would wear a condom when he fucks other girls.
I’ve erased his number for the fifth time in six months. I’m setting a record.
He says I talk too much. He says I’m too demanding.
He says these things in my most vulnerable states. When I’m naked. When I’m on a comedown. When I’m my most open.
He’s the worst person I’ve ever met.
It’s the sixth month I’ve told him I want him gone.
It’s the fifth time I’ve come back.
It’s the fourth time I’ve told no one.
It’s the first time I wrote it down.
I want this to be the last time I mention his name.