Andy,

Below is a summary, in no particular order, of things I want to say. I've tried to be succinct, though it's hard to condense months-worth of thoughts (there are 10 points, taking 7-10 MINS to read, but if time's limited, could you perhaps try and read just points 1-7 ?).

For some bits, there's further detail if you click on ``MORE'' (roughly doubling reading time).

There's nothing here intended to harm you, but parts might be uncomfortable:-

You may think, from the limited conversations we've had, that I've cared most about my own pain in this. It's not true. (MORE);

I think there may have been another person, before me, who was never discovered. (MORE);

In our conversations you responded multiple times to things I never said - so to be clear: I understood your choices. I respected, accepted, and supported them. I didn't react in pain or anger. These were my choices. I wanted you to feel safe, even in your choice to leave me. It's not been the easy route. So it was disrespectful that you felt the need to say: ``I had to make choices'', ``we can't all be winners'', etc., as if I'd asked you to change anything. I had not.

I was worthy of more respect and a better Goodbye than you gave me, even if the overall outcome could not have been different. (MORE);

Our final day was the same day that the last of my barriers crumbled. Just an hour before the end, I'd known what I was going to do next. You'd never let me doubt your feelings for me. I'd come to trust you, the way you wanted, despite the circumstances. I loved you that day. I wanted you. I wanted to experience everything with you. I felt safe. So it's hard to cope with my current feelings: I still care, and if I let myself, would have all ``those'' feelings too, but, overwhelmingly, I feel dirty and used, because of what I allowed, and what I was ready to give - it mattered to me. (MORE);

I never realised the tenderness in your voice towards me, until it was no longer there. It's harder to view you, now, as someone who never wanted to hurt me. Up to and beyond November, I believed what we'd had was real, even if it was a story that couldn't play out. But I can't unhear the lack of care in your voice from our last conversation, nor your apparent struggle to remember what was. I can't control your memories or perceptions, or make you feel something you don't^††, but I wish you'd not cast doubt on everything I thought I knew. If I meant so little in the end, I'm angry at your efforts to gain my trust, and your recklessness with my heart.

(^††I know it's not your fault if feelings disappeared; it's what ``no contact'' is meant to achieve, after all. People are different, and vary in their ability to detach, or compartmentalise; our different circumstances and experiences afterwards, including the reactions of others and level of shame, also likely played a role. But, the change in you was very painful to me, and left me unsure if anything had ever been real. It is *the* thing I would still want a resolution to in all this, because it is hard to continue with the level of confusion, pain, and grief I still feel. )

Please could you listen to this (incomplete) RECORDING ?
(It was made the week after we last spoke, with initial intent of saying everything I wanted, rather than writing. I gave up, as I wasn't able to be both succinct and natural, but it's why it starts by promising more than it delivers! Still, it says some extra things, and I want you to hear my tone - because, no matter the words I need to say, there's no hatred. )

I don't believe that keeping people away was to protect me^†† (MORE). It's insulting, because of the contrast with what I've done for you. Without retaliation, I've dealt with my own heartbreak, with no comfort from the one who broke it. I've suppressed all instincts to lash out or defend myself, and made the choice to still care for you. It isn't easy: I'm human, I've been hurt, and I've unfairly taken most of the blame. It's especially difficult when I no longer know if you ever cared for me. I hate myself for lying, when I know it's the worst part - honesty would be easier for me. If you were protecting me, you'd have told the truth, at least about your feelings at the time, and your role versus mine. You'd have let me take accountability only for my part. The truth is also the only thing that doesn't try and manipulate the outcome in your own favour.

(^††I don't fear confrontation, and would welcome speaking to people like your sister - if you still don't want it, perhaps your actions weren't for my benefit. You're also not alone in offering this kind of protection: my mother, though softening after our November conversation, has struggled with my pain, and routinely threatens to ``set things straight with Chantelle'' - I've given her no direct means, and made clear that harming you would hurt me. I've done my utmost to shield you, through actions, words, and in the details I withhold from everyone. )

I want to put right the one time I wasn't authentic with you, even if it's insignificant now. The day you left for holiday, after my rabbit had died, we spoke while you returned from golf. You said you felt bad about leaving me, and I replied: ``I'm not your responsibility''. Those words were a defence mechanism, a way to remind myself of reality. By then, you were the person I wanted to run to, confide in, and be protected by. I wanted to be your responsibility, but knew I was not. Your response, ``I feel like you are'', broke down my defences. I've never felt happier, safer, more understood, or more myself, than I did with you.

You mentioned trying to change and not being the person I knew. I accept that; the person I knew wouldn't have easily hurt me. I'm not playing victim; I'm making a point. You were in an impossible position, where doing right by one side meant hurting the other. And I want you to be your best self, even if I can't be part of it. Yet, it's hard to believe that if any of the old you remains, you don't feel some remorse: surely you can't think how you treated me at the end was completely OK... can you? Or did I never know you at all? Moreover, if your changes lack increased honesty (or lead to excessive loss of individuality), have you truly become better, or just more fearful?

To address an elephant in the room: I suspect you know I've visited your Grandfather's grave. I inadvertently signalled it on 11th January; consciously, I didn't want you to know, but I would've also known you're not an idiot. I'm not sure why I slipped up. So, to be clear: this wasn't about seeing you. I've chosen random times in the week, when I'm almost certain you won't be there (with rare exceptions when I've been busy and risked weekends^††). It began in Autumn. On impulse, during a trip to Leicester, I stopped to try and find the grave. I wanted to pay my respects, as that story was one of the first things you shared with me. I found it helped. I'd been consumed with grief, and care for you, bottled inside. I couldn't direct it at you or help you. This became a way to release those feelings: by honouring someone so important to you, it felt like I was caring for you. It was never about seeing you. I didn't even want you to know.

( ^††There have been 3 weekend visits; during the most recent, in January, I saw someone that may have been you - if it was, I'm sorry. I don't want you to fear going to your Gramp's grave. Equally, had I known you'd be in Chipping Norton on the day we spoke, I wouldn't have been. It hurts you've let fear take hold, when it's not to do with me as a person, or the real nature of our relationship, which, if it could be viewed separately from the pain it caused, was happy, and safe. So, rest assured, I don't want to see you and be forced to witness what's been lost.)

[As an aside, though written for father and son, this SONG reminds me of you and your Gramp, and what he was to you].