43. The Letters
Alexander
MatchMapping’s situation is improving. The stock’s fluctuations are less violent now. Investors have finally stopped panicking at every minor variation and are taking the time to assess our long-term potential. The share price has stabilized within an acceptable range.
“Numbers look great,” David announces as he walks into my office, iPad in hand. “Up twelve percent for the month. Trading volume is stable. And analysts are starting to revise their forecasts upward.”
He sets the tablet down in front of me, a triumphant smile on his face.
“We did it, Alex. We pulled it off.”
“Yes,” I reply with a smile, though my heart isn’t in it.
After he leaves, I open the reports sent by the marketing team.
Feedback on the app is excellent. Better than expected.
On social media, testimonials are pouring in. Smiling couples. Photos. Stories.
“Thanks to MatchMapping, I found the love of my life.”
“The algorithm really understood me.”
“After years of failures, MatchMapping finally found me the right person.”
I read them one by one.
It’s a success.
And yet, I have the overwhelming feeling of a crushing failure.
I built an entire company on the idea that love could be optimized. That the right people could find each other if they used the right criteria, the right algorithms, the right parameters.
But no algorithm ever warned me:
Warning. You are in the process of destroying the best thing that ever happened to you.
That evening, when I get home, I don’t even touch my computer.
I sit down at my desk.
Fatigue weighs on me, but there’s one thing left to do, and I refuse to put it off any longer.
We always choose where we place our priorities. Until now, work has always won.
Tonight, that ends.
I take out a stack of blank sheets and a pen.
My hand hovers over the first page.
Where do I even begin?
What could I possibly say to Kristel, after all this time?
“No filter. No restraint. Say everything you never said.”
Dr. Lebrun’s voice still echoes in my head.
I close my eyes.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Then I let the pen glide across the paper.
“Kristel,
I forgive you for cheating on me. No, actually, I thank you for it.”
It’s ironic, I know, but saying it feels good. After all, I’m writing this letter for myself, to let go.
“Because of that, you set me free. Free to leave you. Free to end a relationship in which I was suffocating without even realizing it. Free to live a new relationship with an extraordinary woman.”
I pause. The truth is, my relationship with Kristel was superficial. We both loved the idea of being a couple, but we never truly tried to know each other, or to build a deep connection. Not like the one I have with Sam.
“Looking back on our three years together, I realize we did have good moments. Laughter, complicity, lighthearted times, moments of passion. It wasn’t all worthless. But I know now that life can offer more than a beautiful woman on your arm and a relationship without depth.”
Thanks to Sam, I learned that it’s possible to feel a deep connection, shared vulnerability, a desire to grow together—things I didn’t even know existed before.
“You will never read this letter. I won’t send it to you.
I’m writing it for myself.
To close this chapter without regret, without bitterness.
To stop carrying the weight of disappointment and resentment.
I’ve wasted enough time wondering what I could have done differently.
I refuse to let your shadow follow me any longer.
So here it is. Farewell. I hope you find what you’re looking for.
As for me, I now know exactly what I no longer want.
Alexander.”
I look at the letter. It’s short, shorter than I imagined. But then again, what is there really left to say? Kristel belongs to the past. She’s nothing more than a lesson learned, a scar reminding me where not to tread again.
I fold the letter and slip it into an envelope, sealing it. On the front, I simply write “Kristel” before placing it in my desk drawer. One day, maybe, I’ll burn it. But for now, it exists. It allows me to turn the page.
I know a letter won’t be enough to rid myself of her completely, but it’s a good start.
I’m not done yet, though. There’s still another letter to write.
What do I want to say to Sam? What could possibly erase the pain I caused her? Do the words even exist?
Finally, I begin. And once I do, the words flow on their own, like a dam breaking.
“My dear Sam,
I’m asking you for forgiveness.
Forgiveness for hurting you when you deserved nothing but my trust. I will regret for the rest of my life having unjustly accused you, having made you pay for a fault that was never yours.
I want you to know that I loved every moment spent by your side. You taught me to see the world differently, to savor its colors, to feel things more intensely, more deeply. With you, I rediscovered what it means to be truly alive.”
My vision blurs slightly. I think about our outings, about the passion with which she talked about artists and their work. She saw beauty everywhere and, without even trying, opened new doors for me.
My chest tightens painfully. I continue.
“And I’m not even talking about the feelings you awakened in me.
They shook me, terrified me, even. I had never felt anything so strong, so real, for anyone.
And I got scared. Scared of not being enough. Scared of losing you. And instead of opening up to you, I let my jealousy explode and my anger take control. I destroyed with my own hands what mattered most to me.”
My grip tightens around the pen. My heart aches.
“I can’t find the words to express how sorry I am. I can’t change the past, but I’m working on myself so it never happens again. I understand better now where my reactions come from, and I’m learning to communicate instead of fleeing or attacking.
I want to change. Not only for you, but above all for myself.
I’m forcing myself to believe that something positive came out of our breakup. Because if I manage to become a better version of myself, then maybe none of this will have been in vain.
If one day you give me another chance, I’ll do everything to deserve it.
To deserve you, and to make you happy.
Yours,
Alexander.”
I fold the letter carefully. This one, too, I won’t send.
Sam doesn’t need written apologies. She needs to see the change.
Words are easy. Actions are harder.
The road ahead is long, I know that. I only hope that when I’m finally ready, Sam won’t have completely turned the page.