About the Ninth Her...

True letting go isn't an act of surrender; it is the moment you are finally brave enough to write the story down, demanding nothing in return, and realizing that love doesn't need a physical presence

On that fateful day, May 28th, 2020, the worst thing I have ever experienced happened. My mother died. Just like that, all of a sudden, she passed away in convulsions, right in my arms, and I watched it happen, completely unable to do anything. I was terrified and deeply helpless. How do you survive that? How do you cope with knowing that you are right there, and yet your presence means absolutely nothing, that it cannot change a single thing in that exact moment?! All the strength you possess and the belief that you can handle anything in this world suddenly grips you by the throat, refusing to let you breathe. You choke, and instead of air, you inhale pain. A coarse, rough pain that doesn’t help you breathe, but instead scrapes against your thoughts, your lungs, your heart.

​Throughout my life, I have found it incredibly difficult to deal with terrible stories—those where I hear someone is suffering, going through horror, and I am forced to allow it simply because I don't know how to prevent it. No, I don't think I am omnipotent, but I suppose those reasons and those stories forced me to be more than myself in life. More than I know how to be, more than I know, more than I want, more than I can't, more than what even exists. And then, a life like that, a train of thought like that, and emotions like that—they have no end; they are limitless and they treat a fall merely as a reminder that it is possible to stand up again, to fight, and to win.

​Yesterday, I watched a tiny fledgling—a baby seagull—and I marveled at him. I was captivated by his perseverance. He was trying to fly, but the wind was so powerful that it kept throwing him down into the sea. He is so small, what does he know? His wings haven't been broken in yet for him to know how to steer them. But that one little seagull knew the most vital thing. He knew he shouldn't fly over the land, but over the sea.

​From the day that horrific thing happened, I didn't know what to do next, how to move forward, where to go. Everything collapsed on my head. I sat in her apartment, on the bed, unable to believe it was true. I walked away from her place, just as I often used to leave my mom's apartment. We hadn't lived together for a long time; I frequently worked abroad and whenever I returned, I always came home to my mom. But now, I had nowhere to go. Her smile was like a warm embrace, and her embrace was like the whole world telling you that goodness exists, that it is contagious, and that it is always there. Today, when she is gone, feathers appear—white feathers—and I know it’s her. She just drops by to remind me she is here, even though I have never forgotten her.

​My mom ran a market stall for over ten years, selling underwear. In that terrible moment, just as corona was beginning and I found myself without a job, I wanted to take over my mom's business and dedicate myself to it with an abundance of love, just as she had done. After many years of reflection, I realized that mom had paved that path for me—at that exact time, in that exact place, and for that exact reason. She led me to the market to fall in love with a man who was born on the very same day as my father. The only man I ever knew to be in my mother’s life was him, my father, and they had been separated for a long time. I don't know, maybe it was never love, but what happened to me at that moment felt like a sign. The only sign that made me feel alive.

​I saw him on the very first day, and I felt absolutely nothing. Perhaps I felt as though I had known him for a long time, a very long time, even though I had never actually met him before. I knew his mother, and I was certain that she is woman, just, perhaps a couple of years older than me; it never crossed my mind that she had such a grown, adult son. I remember a thought that flashed through my mind, perhaps on that very first day, before he even came to my stall and bought the most expensive underwear I had. I was watching his back, looking at him move merchandise from the surface of the stall into its interior, when suddenly, an unprovoked thought arrived:

"Oh, yes, you are going to be with him."

And then the mental labyrinth began:

"What on earth are you babbling about? Who is he? He’s a kid! Don't get ahead of yourself! Look at what you look like! Actually, he looks really good, etc..."

​After he bought the most expensive underwear I had on the stall, he sent me two requests at the exact same time—on Facebook and on Instagram. I didn't know it was him; I only saw the name Miloš and thought it could be anyone. My first boyfriend, "the tall boy," is named Miloš, and I had another boyfriend with that name; my cousin is named that too. In fact, it's a pretty common name, so I didn't realize it was truly him until I saw his photos. And then, out of nowhere, a crystal-clear, powerful thought reached me. I could actually hear the thought, which said:

"This man would move a boulder for me."

​And everything lingered there. I only saw him on Saturdays at the market, when he would come to cover for his mother, and he was in my line of sight the entire time. He looked at me with an immense depth in his gaze. That look cannot be explained with words, and no word spoken could ever be more accurate, more powerful, or better explained than that exact gaze. I realized that something was powerfully drawing me toward him. No, it wasn't his appearance; in fact, it never had anything to do with how he looked. It was his presence, which was always entirely there. He was never a person who was only partially present. It was a presence in full color, with a richness of taste and scent, carrying an intensity and weight through which you realize you can matter to someone, just like that, simply because you are you.

​I remember, on the day I was painting my apartment, we first started texting innocently, until it escalated into very polite double, or even triple-entendres. I needed something. It hurt so deeply, and as I was running away from the truth that this had actually happened to my mom—that she was gone forever and never again—I escaped into that: someone's presence in the here and now. We agreed to have a superficial relationship, for both of us to have a good time, because the attraction and passion were undeniable. We agreed he would come to my place, and I wasn't excited, dressed up, or filled with expectations at all. I just wanted presence. Considering that the man I had been with for years wasn't there when I needed him most—he didn't even want to be there, offering shaky arguments that showed me day after day how such a possessive person, who loved me most in the world with his words, couldn't even provide me with just presence, which I needed more than anything. I know corona happened solely to separate us; it was the only force I didn't know how to oppose, and that's when I realized that love, as it is, is not enough.

​Miloš and I spent every following Wednesday and Saturday for the next nine months at my apartment. Instead of a couple of hours, it turned into entire evenings of stories, conversations, everything—and the least of it was sex. I noticed he was different when he was with me compared to when he was around other people. While talking about something in my apartment, he was so open, broad-minded, level-headed, and completely his own, with a firm stance. We both swore that what we had was just a fling, all while sinking deeper into one another—physically, mentally, and spiritually. And then I realized that I cared. That I had fallen in love, and that I didn't want to be just an option. I realized I wanted more, I wanted everything, but that was something I couldn't ask for. That's why I left him. Neither of us was being what we had agreed to be; our potentials would overpower any encounter that continued to happen even after we parted ways. We deserved far more, something more beautiful and better, than to roll around in the mud of superficiality.

​Shortly after that, he entered a relationship with a girl who kept him on a leash. She was the personal manager of his stance, his thoughts, his behavior, his phone, his emails. Yes, she was the one replying to the messages he received. For his birthday that year, I wanted to give him something special. Material value didn't interest me, but I wanted to create, invent, buy, do, or give him something that no one ever had. Understanding—because it's easiest to judge, isn't it? Support—because he entered a relationship?! His life is still ahead of him! Time—because that is what he never had enough of with me? I decided on time and bought him a wristwatch, which was actually only meant to deliver the message—the real gift.

​On the ninth day of the eleventh month, it was my birthday, and I received the most beautiful message in the world, and it was the last one he ever wrote to me. By the eleventh day of that same month—11/11—he blocked me. And for months after that, his girlfriend stalked me on social media. She created fake male profiles and sent me messages. Sometimes those messages were threatening and came directly from her. In the two and a half years of the relationship they were in, they fought nine times because of me. And I was absolutely nowhere to be found, except perhaps in his heart and in his thoughts. The year before last, in April, they broke up, and six months later he entered a relationship with another girl who looks similar to the first one, and that is all I know about him. It also happened that last year in April, he followed me from an Instagram account he uses to advertise what he does, and it happens that three times in three months he looks at a story and just vanishes.

​His presence is still powerful, even though he is nowhere around me. Someone is always named Miloš wherever I go, whatever I do. And I don't know what it means. And I don't know what this love means, this presence that I feel; I only know that I have never felt such a powerful presence, happiness, and energy with anyone else. I had never seen or experienced myself before that encounter happened—the realization that what I am radiates, that it is beautiful, grand, and acceptable. That it is welcome. I would have never reached certain points within myself if that encounter with him hadn't happened, if I hadn't recognized myself in the pupil of his eye.

​Maybe today, on this incredibly difficult day for me, maybe today is the time to let him go. Maybe letting go happens when you are ready to write about it, just like this, asking for nothing in return. Maybe today is the time when I should let mom go, to accept that she is physically gone forever and never again, even though she is always here, in me, around me, with me. Maybe that is the epiphany—that someone doesn't have to be physically present for you to feel their love, because you feel it through yourself. Maybe it is precisely today that I am writing this story about Miloš because it is necessary for me to let him go, because only if I let him go will he be able to go where he wants to. Maybe, when I write this story right now and let him go, maybe he... gets married this summer.

Since I've been a waitress my whole life, I feel like I must have a tip jar even here .