To my workaholic love

Taking a last glance at the place I used to call home, I sigh with grief. This is where we made love for the first time and this is where you asked me to marry you. I was sitting on that white couch I am now staring at; when you asked me to be your wife, with my favorite romantic movie playing in the background. Indeed, some really special memories took place here.

I’m not going to pretend as if this doesn’t hurt. It hurts – a lot. I want you to know that I’ve tried really hard to keep this relationship rolling. I’ve been trying for weeks to talk to you, so maybe we could figure out a solution together. Yet every time I’ve attempted to discuss the problem, you would alter the subject – just like you always do.

Checking my right hand ring finger as I lift my luggage, I make sure that my engagement ring isn’t still there. I left it on the table along with a note. “I love you but I love me more.” Just like Samantha Jones, once stated on American television. That is what I wrote in that small note which is now sitting on our living room table along with my engagement ring.

Excuse me, I meant YOUR living room table and YOUR engagement ring. As I am abandoning you. Hopefully, you will find someone else to offer that damn ring to. Someone who can settle with the idea of you not being present.

When I agreed to marry you, I honestly had no idea that you were already married to someone else – your job.

I’d rather you were cheating on me with another woman. I could, at least, make a decent comparison between her and myself, comprehending what she has that I don’t. Which inadequacy of mine was the reason that led you to search for another companion? I could’ve figured that out. But for you to prioritize your career over me – it just drives me mad.

From our very first date, you told me that you were a workaholic. I clearly remember you stating that your work is your passion and you could not possibly imagine doing something else beyond that.

Lately, I have been sharing the same premises with a robot. Ever since you got that promotion at the firm, all you do is work. Even when you were not working, you would still talk about work.

By breakfast time, you would have already made a list of the errands that you had for the day. Honey, it’s 7.30 in the morning – I don’t care of how many calls you have to make or how many meetings you are about to attend! Nodding my head, pretending to care about all your pointless chore lists, I patiently waited for my goodbye kiss before you’d leave. Instead of doing so, you would just pick your briefcase, drink some more coffee and off you were.

Around lunch time, I’d usually check in to see whether you’re coming home to have dinner with me at night. Countless were the times that you stood me up or cancelled last minute, working overtime. And I, a known masochist, would wait for you. Even if that meant waiting till my eyelids would hardly remain open. Have you ever really counted the times that you found me sleeping on the sofa waiting for you to come back? I waited for you every single night. A goodnight kiss and a hug right before I went to sleep were much needed.

If was ever lucky for you to return home “early”, you would be far too tired to go out. Rarely did we go on dates anymore. The last date we went on was on my birthday. I’m pretty sure that you had totally forgotten about that as well. Like you seem to forget about everything these last months – including our anniversary. If it wasn’t for my reminder one week earlier of how we ought to celebrate it, you wouldn’t make an appearance till very late. By the way, I know that it was your assistant that sent me the flowers. I’m not such a fool you know; I can recognize anything which is not handwritten by you.

The most annoying bit of this working addiction was that you were always staring at a screen – with me staring at you infuriated. How many were the times that I walked into our bedroom with sexy lingerie on and you didn’t even notice? Office work is to be carried out in an office and certainly not between our sheets.

“Thanks for asking me on how my day went. I really appreciate your concern, babe. You always seem to take such great care of your woman.” I ironically said when I flushed your mobile phone down the toilet while you were having a shower.

As stupendous as it may sound, I sincerely enjoyed the quarrel we had after that. To yell at me, meant to pay attention to me, something which you repeatedly neglected doing before that. I’m not used to being neglected. I’m not used to playing the happy housewife. I am more than that. That is what I’ve been meaning to tell you while you were busy responding to emails.

I love you but I love me more. I don’t deserve to be treated like this.

If for one second, you dared to think that your expensive presents were to keep me next to you, you are all wrong. All I wanted was some of your time, simple as that.

Good bye dear old apartment, you shall be greatly missed. Sorry for leaving you all alone but I ought to go someplace else where my effort is much more appreciated.