This is how it happened, the full story, not the scraps sold as truth by a self-interested heart. These are the parts told but unheard, unaddressed, unheeded by those who believed and still believe what was and is most convenient for them. It is a story of unfairness and self-serving lies, of heartbreak, and of conformity to a world without a soul. It is the story of the death of trust and the murder of love. 

He had not wanted her. He had found her annoying and cloying, too interested in feeling sorry for herself and having faded with time. But she was also a flirt, an incessant one, who had made him feel as if interest existed in her, had spoken words of a type reserved only for those whom one would consider, never one whom was found to be repulsive. She smiled. She touched. She made innuendo openly, in front of others. There was an affinity, a likeness of souls. And, over time, with proximity, he had come to believe that she was a true soul, though a damaged one, who needed love, and he, against his common sense, fell for her, though he’d kept it quiet for eons, not believing it the right place to pursue someone. 

Finally, however, fearing he would be reassigned, he broke down, and he reached out … to a warm reception. It made no difference what she told others, as he only knew what she said to him, how she acted toward him. He’d never conceived of her as overly vain, and she had no reason to be. He reached out, tired of hearing her abase herself when he saw her as beautiful, if scarred, and she responded, he believed, in good faith. Yet he still did not reveal his feelings, not yet. Instead, he bought her a gift—wine— reciprocity for kindness she had shown him the preceding two years. She had told him to give her a list, and he had, thereby, unknowingly becoming a burden to those who surrounded her, those who were not of good faith nor true of tongue. But he did not see it, and she gave no indication. Her response to his gift was leading. After he told her about it, and he told her before he gave it to her, she suggested of her own accord that she would leave her car door open for it. The following day she threw herself on him in an embrace. What should he have thought? And, after he’d delivered it, she again embraced him, a long embrace, not a pat on the shoulder. Again, what she he have thought? And she raved about the wine to him.

They began speaking often, electronic missives, almost daily, but nothing untoward, no pressure. And she kept pressing him as to why he’d gotten her the gift, though he’d already told her, fishing for something. Then he made a mistake, the first of many. That he’d made a mistake the day he let his heart grow fond of her would be unknown to him for some time. 

He’d noticed that another, one who was married, had begun to speak and act toward her in ways a married man, who was not a letch, should never act. And he saw her reciprocate that attention, though he believed it was because she did not know how to rebuff it. He was wrong. This letch began to paw her regularly, in ways reserved for spouses and children, and made comments that were not only inappropriate for a work setting but inappropriate in any setting, comments that demeaned her, treated her as his plaything, though they were made in “jest.” And he, acting with complete sincerity and worry, thought it best to describe the situation, what appeared to be outright manipulation and boundary-crossing, on social media, where she would see it. And, suddenly, for his care, his world went dark. 

She continued to speak to him as if everything were the same, but she continued to pester him about why he’d gotten her the gift. He, finally, relented and expressed his long-burning interest in her. She had, clearly, known it already, but, instead of telling him that she did not want to pursue anything from the start, she waited until his confession to burn him coldly, and it was unforeseen to him. It made no sense. It did not comport with her earlier behavior. Something had changed, and it was tied to his warning. She did not like being called out for her lack of morality, for her desperation for attention from, seemingly, any man. But she still told him that they were and would always remain friends. Those were her words, and he took her at her word. Having become so enamored of her, he could not simply let her go, and friendship had seemed better to him than nothing.

They continued to talk, almost daily. Not once did she tell him she did not want to associate with him as anything more than coworkers … not once. It never occurred to him that she was placating him as she placated the letch. He thought they shared something closer, even if it were not love. When he said nothing for days, she would reopen communication. She did not, in any way, try to end the missives. But she grew hot and then cold, close and then distant, as if others were constantly trying to control her feelings, until one day, after he’d told her that if she needed to do something or just didn’t want to talk to him to tell him. And she did tell him, though she did not say that she did not want to text him nor for him to text her. She did not. She told him merely that she wanted to relax at night, after work, and didn’t want to be on her phone. He understood, and, for a while, they only texted in the afternoon. He would try to let her go, but she would continue the conversations, and, eventually, they returned to day and night. He thought nothing of it. He had not forced her. She continued to respark conversations and initiated her own, sometimes being warm and open, sometimes cool and short. Her posts were still on his page. There was no way for him to know what was in her mind. 

Then he’d made his third mistake. Though he knew it was wrong, it was not undertaken to be deceitful nor cruel. He only wanted to know what she was really thinking. So he pretended to be someone else online, trying to get her attention, only to pick her brain, to see what drove her. In his mind and heart it was silly, nothing more, and he did not intend for it to cause harm. But, in her need for attention and pity, she told everyone she could about the “person” online, obsessing over it. She even told him, and he told her to block. She did not, needing to use it for attention. But someone she told decided to use it against her, and him. Of course, this someone was obviously one of her “friends,” but they had decided to try to frame him by sending her a disgusting, vicious, and abusive email, purportedly connected to his alter ego, which he did not know the contents of until everything had burned down. He did not send it, and he would not have. So he did what he could in the way of damage control and told her a simple way to get rid of his feigned persona. She was hesitant, so he made an alternative email for her, and she okayed it, thanked him for it, though she would later lie, and he rid her of his alter. Yes, he never should have done it, but the harm that was caused was inflicted by whichever “friend” of hers chose to take advantage, not by him, and he was never connected to the nasty email because he had not sent it. He’d felt bad about his stupid trick and he gave her an out, but she did not take it. In fact, she seemed to be closer to him afterwards. He felt that her new attention had not been earned, and he backed off somewhat, waiting until he could earn her closeness under sincere circumstances. 

They continued to talk, almost daily, as friends. Yes, he would sometimes joke about his attraction for her, but it was sincere, unlike the attention she continued to accept from the letch, the continued pawing. But, as time went on, he began to suspect that she was, in fact, humoring him to an extent, torn between being his friend and the insidious gossip of those around her about him. So, though it pained him immensely, he decided to let her go. He loved her, though he had not told her so, but there was nothing there for him. Her friendship began to seem thin. So he prepared a parting gift for her, painstakingly assembled it, based upon what she had told him she liked, her interests. She had told him much that was personal. He did not know that they were not her real interests, that her interests were much more shallow. As before, he told her about it in advance, and, as before, she accepted it in advance to be delivered the same was as before. 

It was the day before the foul day of fake love, the day of hearts, and he found her door locked. She had set him up. She had listened to someone else, who fed her need for pity and used the situation to their own advantage, giving advice they had no right to give, as they did not know the real situation, only what she painted to them for their attention. But, somehow, the gift found its way to her, and she had sent him numerous thanks you thanks, though there were no hugs. Yet, she and her friend acted as if he were suddenly one of their confidantes, her friend even, ostensibly, repeating her feelings about him to another in front of him, clearly so that he would hear. But the locked door had said all that needed to be said, and he resolved to let her go forever. He went silent, giving her exactly what she had been telling everyone else she wanted, and he hoped she would catch on. She did not, or she did but she would not allow it.