Dear Patrick,
I hate that you didn’t fight for me. Not with Jake, not with Craig, not with anyone. You’re so brave about everything else. Climbing mountains, building empires, taking on the world.
But when it came to us, you were a coward.
I hate that I still miss you.
I hate that I check my phone hoping you’ve messaged, even though I know you won’t.
I hate that you made me brave enough to want things, then took them away.
I hate that seafood is ruined forever. Congratulations, you’ve permanently ruined mussels.
I hate that you’ve probably moved on while I’m here, writing your name like a lovesick teenager in a journal that smells like a health food store.
I hate that if you called right now, I’d probably answer.
You’re out there, moving forward the way men always do, while I’m here, frozen at the moment you decided I wasn’t worth fighting for.
I hate that I still love you.
The words pour out, messy and honest and half illegible through the tears.
The woman next to me has written what looks like a dissertation. The man on my other side just has one word: “Dad.”
We’re a right cheerful bunch.
We’re told to burn the letters in the fire pit tonight. “Release them to the universe,” the instructor says, as if the universe gives a toss.
After dinner—quinoa—we gather around the fire pit.
One by one, people step forward. The dissertation woman goes first, feeding pages and pages to the flames. She cries silently, shoulders shaking. Without thinking, I reach over and squeeze her hand. She squeezes back so hard it hurts. We’re all just disasters holding hands around a fire pit in the Cotswolds.
The “Dad” man goes next. He holds one word over the flames for ages. When he finally lets go, he makes a small wounded sound. The woman beside him rubs his back in circles.
Then it’s my turn.
I think about Patrick. How he’s probably not thinking of me at all.
“You don’t get to live in my head rent-free anymore,” I whisper and drop the letter.
The flames eat it quickly. Patrick’s name curls, blackens, and disappears.
I wish it were that easy to make the rest of him go too.
Monday morning, I arrive at the office feeling... different. Not better, exactly—I still woke up at 3 a.m. with his name caught in my throat—but the weekend helped.
Last night was rough, though. After the peaceful weekend of mindful breathing and pretending hemp smells nice, I came home to Riri’s empty house and had the most horrific dream.
I was in the water beside Patrick’s boat, getting pulled away by a current. He was on the boat fishing, surrounded by all his friends and family. He cast his line perfectly because he’s a master fisherman, and I was literally drowning meters away, arms flailing, trying to scream his name, but water kept filling my mouth. He never looked. Not once. Just kept casting that beautiful line while I sank.
I woke up gasping, sheets soaked through, that half-second of relief—thank God it was just a dream—before remembering it’s also true in real life.
Still, I got up this morning. Showered. Put on mascara. That must count for something. Gold star for Georgie.
It’s weird being back in London after Skye. Every day that passes, it all feels more distorted. Did Skye even happen?
Of course, I’ve been doing the most self-destructive thing possible: late-night conversations with AI chatbots.
