I don't know when it started. September? July? July sounds reasonable. That's when I first met you, after all. Not that long ago. Or is it? I can't keep track of time anymore. It feels like it's been forever. It feels like it was just last week.

You told me we were a flower in a beautiful garden. Destined to wilt unless we stayed together. I believed you. How could I not? Fragments of who I used to be played over your face every time I looked at you. So helpless. Of course I'd be there for you.

The first time we met in person was probably weird for you, wasn't it? Alone in a foreign country. No family, no friends. One thing planned for the entire trip: To meet me. And you did.

I was exhausted. We'd been walking the entire day, and after dinner you laid your heart bare in front of me and begged me to help you. Looking back, I should've told you "No."

It may sound cruel, but you know it's just. You know what happened afterward, and you know I didn't deserve it. Or maybe you think I did?

But, of course, I let you in. I held your heart in my hand, and I gave you my own as I promised I would always be there for you.

You left my apartment after midnight. Hours later than planned. I remember breaking down crying shortly after you closed the door behind you.

I know you meant well. But, looking back, you remind me of all those bad men whose praise I traded my dignity for at 18.

You returned back home a week later, but before you left, I told you how I couldn’t handle another incident like that. I gave you back your heart, but you weren't ready to do the same for me.

You told me we were a flower. I did my best to keep us growing. You seemed hellbent on making us wilt.

Even now, I think of you. Even now, a stray thought may suddenly remind me of what you did and send my mind spinning down an endless spiral of "I'm to blame" and "I deserve it."

Only later did I talk about you in therapy. I grew desensitised to words I never thought would apply to me. Listening to myself retelling the story sounded absurd, and to this day I still wonder if it was all a dream.

I know it wasn't. I hear you speaking in my friends' voices. I see your actions in my mind. I taste you on the words I speak. I feel you inside me, desperately pleading for a second chance.

Had it not been for my family and my friends, odds are our flower would still be alive. Struggling not to wilt as I nurture it back to health. As you keep walking on it. Over and over again.

Looking back, I'm glad I ripped it out of the soil and threw it out of my garden. I'll bloom without you.