The last four months. Part I: Break-up with three-week notice

During my three-month break-up with my boyfriend, there were many times where I wanted to blog about what was going on in my head... and in my bed. But I just couldn't.

Why? Because I didn't have much time on my hands between working my ass off at the Factory (with an average of two trips to England a week) and starring in my very own daytime drama series. Because it takes some thought to write a post and, after having spent most of 2010 overthinking, I was trying a less reflective approach on life, for a change. And because, I must admit it, I was afraid of my readers' judgment.

Now, where should I begin? After months of crisis, a short break-up that was his decision and a weak reconciliation, I decided to end things with my beau early in September. Despite the break-up, we spent three weeks together and we went on the trip we had planned, but obviously not exactly as planned. Ever since he left I've been trying so hard not to look back at those three weeks than it's only now that I realize how painful they were.

A broken heart becomes selfish and mine was no exception. I had been suffering for months and I had been telling myself: "I don't want to suffer like this", which translated as "I don't want to suffer from this relationship", which translated as "I don't want to love him". That's what consciously or unconsciously I had been repeating myself, and eventually I believed it, eventually I was sure I didn't love him anymore. And I wanted to be done with the suffering, with the relationship, with him, and make sure he understood there was no going back, with little gestures that were just necessarily harsh for me but downright cruel for him. In my mind, I was just putting my foot down, while he felt tortured. Protecting my feelings at all costs, I was trying to see in those moments of fun we got to have together during those last three weeks a sign of a healthy and mature break-up, whereas for him they were the unbearable reminder of what he was about to lose forever.

Of course, my imaginary fortress wasn't all that unassailable. One morning, I woke up and I immediately realized the man who was in bed with me, whom I had thought the man of my life, was leaving in a couple hours, to never come back. I cried like I had promised myself not to cry over him again. During the train ride to the airport he looked cold and distant, but his eyes screamed defeat. He was broken. I couldn't stand it. I wanted him to go so all the pain could be gone. And still, for one second, already at the airport, I told myself: "If he says it, if he just says I love you or Please don't do this, I will give in".

But he didn't. He finally disappeared behind the security control, and that's when the whole Terminal 2 of Charles de Gaulle Airport, the infamous scene of so many of our separations and reunions, collapsed on me, and even some planes crashed on top of the tones of blood-splattered debris. End of Act V.

On my way back home, I figured out there was maybe someone I could text...