How do I begin, monsieur?

Should I begin with the day we met? The day we started talking? Or the day we held each other's gaze for the longest time and felt something we couldn't put into words?

Should I begin with the late night talks? The uninhibited laughter? Or the secrets only the two of us know?

Should I begin with how you read me like a book? How the slightest flicker of your eyes told me a million things? Or how each kiss felt like a fire that consumed us both into oblivion?

Should I begin with how I melted into your arms? The way you fixed your hair? Or how every moment with you felt like a blissful dream?

Should I begin with how you remembered every detail? How I used to tinker with your necklace? Or how I caught myself one day thinking maybe you were "the One?"

Maybe not.

Let's begin with the end…

Let's begin with every tear I shed the moment you left. Every tear that, to this very second as I am writing, still holds as much passion as I felt for you the first time we kissed.

See, I wonder how I can pull through. Acting, pretending, things I was never good at — I suddenly realized that I needed to learn them, just so I can stop tearing my head apart wondering where I went wrong or how I lost you. I acted like I was fine. I pretended to be happy. I filled my Snapchat and Instagram with pictures and videos. I updated my Facebook status religiously. I wrote on Twitter as if I was writing a story.

Boy, who was I kidding?

For 5 nights straight, I cried about you. On the 6th night, I decided I hated you. 7th night, I loved you. 8th night, needed you. 9th night, wanted you. 10th night, wanted you dead.

I went through the wildest emotional roller coaster I have ever experienced in my 21 years of existence.

I put on makeup after 1.5 weeks of wallowing. Every single day, I had a new look. Instagram and Snapchat pictures on fleek. Makeup on fire. Eyes smoky. Lips plump. People at school called me "fabulous."

I even had a photoshoot, taking advantage of the fact that I lost 5 lbs. grieving over you. I auditioned for a role. Got in. Way to hone my acting skills. Pretending to have my life all jazzed up? Done.

I kept pretending. For a month, I was ablaze, soaring in a splash of neon colours with dark makeup covering the pain that marred my face.

I was getting the hang of it. Boy, oh, boy, was I getting the hang of it.

Now, here I am — shedding tears as loaded as the night you decided to end things.

The truth is, no matter how much I distract myself, I can't distract myself from those memories of you. No matter how hard I run away, I can't run away from how I truly feel for you. No matter how pretentious I get, I can't pretend to not care about you. No matter how I act, these tears will always be for you.

I still am absolutely and madly in love with you.

Even the parts you thought I didn't like, I adored completely. I was and still am in love with every inch of you — every heartless story, every troublesome tendency, everything.

I meant it when I said I loved you. And I still do.

But, what the hell, right? You don't care. You're done with me. No matter how hard I try to win you back, it's over. Maybe not for me, but definitely for you. And this love? It's stupid and something you won't ever understand.

It's just something I have to kill.