This entry is a refined amalgamation of five private blogs, originally written for Tahliya’s eyes alone. It was created to offer emotional clarity, personal release, and an unflinching record of truth. Though intended to be read in full, she postponed it repeatedly – diminishing the time, effort, and sincerity I gave without hesitation. In response, I withdrew the entries and offered instead a single-page letter outlining my terms.

What follows is not an open invitation. This is an archive – rarely revisited, never denied. These words remain not out of bitterness, but as a testament to the strength it takes to walk away when love becomes stagnant, and clarity becomes survival.

This was never written to shame or vilify. It exists to honour the complexity of a connection that once carried meaning – and to preserve the truth, before time or sentiment tries to rewrite it.

While names have been softened, the experiences are not fiction.

This first entry responds to a message I received on August 24th, 2024 – a message that dismissed not only my feelings, but my very identity. I wrote this to reclaim my voice. For full context, the original message and my response can be found later in this entry, under the “Betrayal” section.

Tahliya said:

It’s like you’re beating a dead horse and u like to talk about beating a dead horse.

Yes I have shit memory. But I also lead one of the busiest lives I know. And honestly I don’t think u should focus so much on ruminating on things of stuff. The past is the past and we evolve and change as people to some extent as do relationships. They can never be the same. God I hope not. I would hope there’s a maturity that comes with experience and all that small stuff we used to sweat over isn’t as big of a deal now this shouldn’t really be given much thought.

To assume things will always be 100% the same is not realistic, but naive. And you beating around the bush is super annoying. It’s like you’re a kid again who can’t answer straight or, worse an adult who likes to play games to hook someone in

I hope it’s not the latter. I know you’re someone who has good intentions but sometimes it just doesn’t come out right, as expressive and eloquent as u can be. But I also know you can get triggered easily and retreat like a crab into a hole to lick it’s wounds. I just hope u can understand where I’m coming from. If not, that’s OK. Maybe just take a break and focus on what’s most important. Your mental health, physical health, Amber, Rudy, your parents…

Your words sometimes feel like cuts and I suppose my words can also. I assume that if u can dish it u can also take it. So, I’m not trying to be an asshole

I’m genuinely tired of this beat around bush shit and stuff that goes on and on should have been settled. I just don’t want to give it more air time than it needs. Unless u disagree about the amount of requisite time it needs which is a diff matter entirely.

Anyway, this is getting too long… I really hope you don’t take this the wrong way. Am I naive to think you won’t?

Content Compass

Morning Star

In 2008, Pepper painted a picture of me and called it “Morning Star”. At first, she named it “Wings of Solitude”, but as she looked deeper into her connection with me, she changed it. She told me the first title didn’t fit because she didn’t just see loneliness in me. She saw someone carrying the weight of the hearts of others, even as my own went unseen. She said. ‘You’re a champion to those you love.’

That painting came from a quiet moment she witnessed. She told me she had stood just a few metres behind me, watching as I lingered alone on the pier by the Fraser River. Luna, hanging low and luminous, cast her glow all around, framing my silhouette. She told me, to her, that image wasn’t just stillness, it was a story. It wasn’t just a moment of solitude, it was resilience wrapped in yearning. From that moment, she painted me not as I was, but as she saw me: someone torn yet enduring.

In one of our other conversations, she told me I reminded her of a fallen angel – a being whose wings had been scorched and lost, leaving behind only scars. ‘Those scars,’ she said, ‘are silent reminders of what you’ve endured, but also of what you still carry for others.’ She told me that even though I didn’t outwardly show loneliness, there was something in the way I held myself that gave it away. ‘You always keep your distance,’ she said. ‘Not far enough to disappear, but just far enough to watch. You’re always there, on the edge – close, but never reaching.’

And every time she noticed it, every time that quiet ache surfaced in me, she would reach out. ‘I just wanted you to know,’ she once said, her voice breaking, ‘that you deserve love too. Even when you can’t see it in yourself, you’re worthy of it.’

I still remember the morning I took her to the airport – the last time I would see her. The words we shared are etched in my soul, too raw to repeat, but it was in her leaving that she broke me. As she walked through those gates, she paused, turning back to me for one final moment. Our tearful eyes met, and through her trembling lips, she forced a smile. I blew her a kiss, trying to hold myself together, but then, as if the weight of it all shattered her resolve, she broke down. Tears streamed down her face as she clutched her chest with one hand. I stood frozen, powerless to reach her, as the barrier between us became more than physical.

Grief surged within me, an unbearable tide. I clenched my fists, biting back tears, but they came anyway, warm and relentless. I was losing her – not just a friend, but a connection so profound it defied definition. Ours was a bond too unique, too deep, to be confined to mere words. And as I turned away, her cries still echoing faintly in the distance, a part of me shattered irreparably.

Back in my van, parked in the stillness of the airport lot, I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I wept, the kind of tears that shook my entire body, emptying everything I’ve held inside. For an hour, maybe more, I let it all pour out. When I finally rolled down the window, the cold air hit my face like a jolt back to reality. I took a deep, shuddering breath, wiped my face, and drove away. At the intersection near the airport, the light turned red, and as I waited, I saw a plane ascend into the morning sky. I watched it climb higher and higher, my heart aching with every beat. And in a voice barely above a whisper, I said again, “Goodbye darling.”

Growing up, I had to learn to fight against a world that constantly tried to make me feel small. From as early as I can remember, I’ve faced racism and bullying head-on. I refused to let the world cast me as a victim, even when it tried to shove me into that role – tried to break me, over and over again.

When I was just three years old, playing outside our house on Hollymount Drive, a man stopped his car, got out, and grabbed me. His hands shook me violently, and I didn’t understand why. All I knew was the fear, the confusion, and the way he only stopped when my mother ran out, wielding a broom like a sword, screaming to protect her son. At seven, as my mom and I crouched by a ditch admiring at the cute tiny frogs, an older Catholic couple emerged from their house just to hurl hatred at us. ‘You’re disgusting,’ they spat, ‘Go back to China.’ My mother, always graceful, smiled through their venom, trying to soften the moment, but even then, I couldn’t. Their words crushed me. At eight, kids on bikes circled me, mocking me with slant-eyed gestures, shouting for me to ‘go back.’ My blood boiled, and I punched one of them in the stomach before telling the other to leave. By nine, I had built a wall around myself. I’d learned to fight back against every insult, every shove, and every threat, even though the attacks never really stopped.

Chronic illness, death, near-death experiences – I’ve faced them all.

There were worse days still. The first day of school, I was hit head-on by a van. My bike crumpled beneath me as I flew through the air, landing hard on someone’s yard. I lost sight in my right eye. Doctors had to drill into my skull to drain the blood pooling inside. The physical scars were deep, but the invisible ones – the nightmares, the fear of intersections and bikes, the depression that followed – cut even deeper. Yet, somehow, I kept going. Hikes, rides, life’s sharpest turns – I faced every injury, every fall, but none of them ever truly broke me.

But I’ve also broken others. I’ve broken hearts. And though my own has been shattered too, the two hearts I hurt the most, so deeply that their cries still echo in my soul were my mother’s and Amber’s. I was not an easy son. I was not an easy lover. In my anger, my pain, my struggles, I brought them to tears more times than I can count. I can still see their faces, their sorrow written in the lines of their expressions, and it haunts me. The sound of their pain plays on an endless loop in my memory, each tear they shed etching another scar onto my already fractured heart.

I carry their sadness with me always. It weighs on me, heavy and unrelenting. It is my punishment, my penance, and my eternal reminder. A reminder of what I was, of what I must never be again. Because they deserved better. They still do. And I will never forgive myself for the ways I failed them.

Even at home, there were battles. My father carried his own pain, his own demons, and often, they spilled out onto us. I’ll never forget when my two-year-old brother, clinging to my father’s leg after a nightmare, was flung off like he was nothing. His crying-screams still echo in my heart, even decades later.

But amidst the heaviness of memory, there are moments of warmth that shine like fragile stars in the night. I remember one such night, when I was just a child. The house was aglow with a soft, amber light, its warmth wrapping around us like a blanket. My mom and I hid behind the couch, stifling giggles, as we heard my dad’s car pulling into the driveway. When he stepped inside, calling out for us, we stayed quiet until he found us. When he did, his laughter filled the room – a deep, joyful sound that made me feel safe in a way words never could. I can still see his smile, etched so vividly in my mind, and when I close my eyes, it’s like I’m back there again, basking in the rare but undeniable happiness that radiated from him.

Then there was that summer evening in the 80s, before the weight of adolescence set in, when my parents took us out to the school field to fly a giant cobra kite. The sky was vast and clear, painted in shades of gold and lavender as the sun dipped lower. The scent of freshly cut grass lingered in the air, mingling with the laughter of children. For a while, everything felt perfect – no arguments, no shadows, just peace. I remember the kite soaring high, its colourful tail dancing against the sky, and for one of the few times in my life, I saw my parents smiling, genuine and unguarded.

Those smiles, so fleeting and rare, are treasures I hold close, reminders of the love that existed even in the quiet spaces between life’s struggles. They remind me that even amidst the storms, there were moments of light. Moments that mattered. Moments that endured.

I’ve watched my parents face a lifetime of struggles – setbacks that would have crushed anyone less resilient. They poured everything into a grocery and seafood store, only to see it fail. Massive debts piled up, bad investments compounded their stress, and the weight of it all gnawed away at their health – mentally, physically, and emotionally. Then there were the betrayals – those who took advantage of their kindness, leaving behind wounds that ran deeper than finances.

I’ve only heard my father cry twice. Once when his father passed, and again when his mother died. For a man so stoic, whose emotions were always tightly guarded, those tears shattered me. They weren’t just drops of sadness; they were a flood of everything he had carried in silence, finally spilling over. My mother didn’t cry when her parents passed – she bore her grief with an almost inhuman strength, but my father’s sorrow cut deeper than I could bear. It broke my heart to see him so human, so vulnerable, and yet I was powerless to help him carry even a fragment of that grief.

Years later, my mom told me something that still haunts me. She said that when I was lying on a gurney in the hospital, bloodied, broken, bruised, and unconscious, she saw tears well up in my father’s eyes. He didn’t cry openly, but the quiet tremble in his face betrayed him. He was unravelled, powerless to do anything but wait and hope that I would survive. Hearing this as an adult, I felt something inside me crack. My father – the man who always seemed unbreakable, had been brought to the edge by his love for me, a love he rarely expressed in words but carried like a silent burden.

That image of him, sitting helplessly at my bedside, has stayed with me ever since. It’s a reminder of the depth of his love – a love he didn’t always show, but one that ran so deep it hurt. It’s a weight I carry now too, not as a burden, but as a testament to the strength of his heart, hidden beneath the layers of his quiet resilience.

Sometimes, in the quiet embrace of sleep, I would wake suddenly, tears streaming down my face and my chest heavy with an ache so profound it left me breathless. In those fragile moments, I’d sit there, dazed, as if my heart had spoken a language of sorrow I couldn’t quite grasp, a pain too vast to name. It was as though the emotions I kept buried had found their way to the surface, unbidden, revealing themselves without my permission – raw, unguarded, and utterly beyond my control.

I’ve been a founder, a co-founder, a dreamer of ideas that bloomed into start-ups, and a supporter of visions that lit up the night in the form of raves. Throughout the late 90s to 2011, I have met many faces from every corner of life. I’ve shared meals with the homeless, sat in silence with grief-stricken veterans, broken bread with millionaires, spoke candidly with successful entrepreneurs, worked behind the scenes and help direct models, worked alongside actors, had picnics and played at the playground with professional athletes, and met artists of all kinds. I’ve hiked paths that tested my limits, seen vistas that stole my breath away, and stood in awe of nature’s raw beauty, where the cold winds and scorching heat felt like the heartbeat of the world itself.

I’ve seen the wonders of human creation and marvelled at the magic of the earth beneath my feet. I’ve been part of ventures that saw millions and tens of millions exchanged. But no amount of success or wealth could ever outshine the memories, the faces, and the fleeting moments that have shaped me. Every conversation, every experience, every hardship and joy has made me who I am today. Through it all, I wouldn’t trade a single memory, no matter how bittersweet, because they’ve all woven together the story of my life.

When I look back at all the steps I’ve taken, a wave of nostalgia washes over me – bittersweet, heartwarming, and everything in between. Each moment I’ve lived through feels etched into my soul: every first kiss that left my heart racing, every vulnerable confession, every tentative first step into the unknown, every bond formed with a new friend. Every piece of my journey, no matter how joyful or painful, has shaped the person I’ve become. And for all of it – the laughter, the tears, the triumphs, and even the heartbreak, I am overwhelmingly thankful.

Over the years, my friends have looked to me as their champion – someone strong, steady, someone they could lean on. They’ve believed in me in ways I often struggle to believe in myself. Time and time again, they’ve entrusted me as their confidant, their advisor, their tactician, and sometimes even their mentor. It’s through this faith they place in me that I’ve found a profound sense of gratitude for the bonds we share, for the gift of their friendship.

Though I try to keep my shadows hidden, they’ve always sensed the darkness I carry – the scars, the doubts, the weight of my own struggles. And yet, they never waver. They stay by my side, unwavering in their loyalty – never disparaging me, never dismissive, never patronizing. In their steadfastness, they remind me that even in my darkest moments, I am worth fighting for. For that love, that unshakable belief in me, I owe them my loyalty.

Trust, love, and commitment exists on a spectrum, a bridge forged from the elements of ancient stars, connecting me to the people who matter most – the ones I consider my better halves, my soul’s reflection. The past holds its weight over me, a constant reminder of who I’ve been, who I’ve lost, and the choices I’ve made. It doesn’t define me, but it holds me accountable. I don’t live in it, but I carry its lessons, its scars, with me. And in the quiet moments of reflection, I strive, ever so desperately, to become a better version of myself, one worthy of the love that’s been given to me.

And yet, after all of that, after fighting through so much pain, so much injustice, and learning to stand tall in a world that tried to break me – you, the person who claims we have a special connection, who says we share an unique bond, have dismissed and disparaged me. To diminish me as a child, who isn’t worth your time, nor energy, ruminates in the past, can’t evolve, can’t grow-up, and least of all, continue to accuse me of being self-serving, wanting to have sexual intercourse with you, because like somehow, that’s all any of this means to me.

Tahliya, it’s obvious you’re projecting.

I have never, in my entire life, retreated to lick my wounds. Ask any one of my friends, Amber, my parents, colleagues, clients, or even my former partners. They will all tell you the same. If you doubt me, go ahead and contact any one of them right now. Since I was a child, from about seven years old, I’ve faced racism head-on, dealt with challenges on my own, and refused to back down. I’ve stood up to injustice, bullies, and racists alike. So for you, of all people, to suggest that I retreat to lick my wounds is beyond insulting. Do you not remember 2004, when we were at UBC and someone hurled a racist slur at you? While you stood there trying to whisper for me to let it go, I was the one who stormed up to that asshole and told him to fuck off without hesitation. I defended you when you wouldn’t even defend yourself. And now, you have the audacity to accuse me of being the one who retreats to lick my wounds like a hermit crab?!

I am not Daffodil. I am not Robin. I am not Jules. I am not Jac. Nor am I anyone else that have taken you for granted.

I am Leeman Cheng.

Through all the battles, the heartache, the years of carrying burdens no one knew existed, I have held myself up. So tell me, how is it that you, of all people, would see me so small, so insignificant? How is it that the one person I have been protecting and fighting for – the one I’ve been committed to since day one, sacrificing my own desires, to uphold your goals and dreams, is unable to see me for who I am? How is it that you reduce me to nothing?

Am I truly so unworthy of your love, of your friendship, that even in your moments of hurt, even when you’re projecting your own pain and stress, that you still find it in you to treat me as such?

Querida, to simply say I’m hurt, would be to diminish the storm inside of me. Yet I still stood there, offering grace, when all you offered was silence.

When We Were Us

Note: This chapter was originally drafted years ago on December 11th, 2020, and polished only recently for clarity. The events here are a direct reflection of the emotional and physical tension that defined our relationship in 2012–2014. It is not fiction. The names are changed for privacy, but the feelings, choices, and regrets are as real as the people involved.

These were recorded in private diaries as it unfolded, compacted to avoid repetition.

February 2012

Tahliya emailed me a photo of a poorly restored painting of Jesus, prompting laughter and a playful exchange. Out of nowhere, she suggested that in another life, she would have let me pleasure her’”a stark contrast to her usual jokes. Our conversation took a flirtatious turn, leaving me both intrigued and confused. I remarked, “I would love to have you over right now,” to which she replied, “I have errands I need to attend to.”

A few days later, when Tahliya and I met up, the atmosphere was strikingly different from any prior encounter. From her exuberant entrance into my home to our late-night visit to Denny’s and back again, her energy was charged with a newfound sensuality.

She greeted me with an unexpected bubbly enthusiasm, a stark contrast to her usual playful demeanour. As she walked up the stairs, I couldn’t help but notice the way she carried herself, glancing back with a smile that piqued my curiosity. Once in my room, our two-hour conversation was punctuated by her frequent touches’”an innocent inquiry about my workouts quickly transformed into her exploring my arms and shoulders, accompanied by lingering winks and smiles.

After we parked at Denny’s, her behaviour grew even more audacious. Just before exiting the car, she flashed me a mischievous smile that left me momentarily speechless. Inside, I was taken aback when her bare foot brushed against me, followed by her toe playfully teasing me through my pants. I reached down to caress her foot, occasionally tickling her toes, but mostly, just gently caressing them. I asked if she liked it, and she smiled at me, while she wiggled her toes in acknowledgement. We exchanged laughter and flirtation, and though I was perplexed, I felt a thrill in our playful banter. She stuck her tongue out between her lips, and pulled the tip back and forth, like she was beckoning me to come closer to her. She stared at me like a predator trying to lure her prey, and honestly, by then, I had a very hard erection, twitching towards her direction, yearning to penetrate her mouth and pussy. Her feet were soft, and while she playfully did her thing with me, I fantasized her giving me an oily footjob, before jamming my cock into her naughty mouth to lick up all the cum she churned out of me, just for me to shove it into her pussy for another round of deep pounding.

As the night unfolded, Tahliya became increasingly flirtatious. She playfully explored the dynamics of our friendship, asking about my preferences in intimate settings, leading to a series of charged encounters. At one point, she eagerly let me guide her around the room and playfully bent over a footstool, intensifying the moment. I pressed against her, our bodies intertwined in playful intimacy. Though we were fully clothed, the tension between us was noticeable. As I held her from behind, my hands slipped beneath her shirt, gliding over her bare skin. My fingers caressed the curve of her body, lingering just beneath her breasts as I asked if I could touch them. She responded eagerly, yet at the last moment, I hesitated, feeling her skin but choosing to withdraw my hands instead.

My reluctance stemmed from a deeper concern: crossing that boundary might undermine her aspirations for children in the future. Despite the turmoil in her current relationship, my friendship with her felt more profound than mere desire. I recognized that if we were to cross that line, further chaos may ensue in her life. Yet, knowing her nature, I also understood she could return for more, drawn by the affection and support I could provide – something her partner had failed to offer.

She expressed her fondness for missionary, appreciating the closeness it afforded with her partner. I invited her to lie down on the floor, gently parting her legs as I settled above her. She wrapped her legs around me, and we shared a moment of dry intimacy. As I turned to face her, our eyes met, and I leaned in to kiss her cheek, then traced my lips along her neck. When I glanced back, her eyes were closed, and I found myself drawn to her lips, yearning to kiss her fully. Yet, hesitation held me back, and I settled for a gentle kiss on the corner of her mouth, whispering, “Sorry.” She replied softly, “That’s okay,” a response that left me questioning the boundaries we had already blurred.

Sometime during that night, while our bodied were next to each other, I playfully remarked, “You’re wearing too many clothes!”

Tahliya smiled at me, her eyes sparkling as I reached for the hem of her shirt. She made no move to stop me as my fingers slipped beneath the fabric, gently exploring her bare skin. Her lips parted slightly, an unspoken anticipation hanging in the air. My heart raced, and a warm tremor coursed through me as my hands rested on her waist, holding her as intimately as I would if we were fully entwined. I slowly glided my fingers up her sides, pausing just shy of her rib cage, where I caressed the soft curves beneath my thumbs. The heat between us was obvious, and I felt the weight of the moment pressing down on me.

As my hands travelled upward, they brushed against the fabric that cradled her breasts, so tantalizingly close to crossing a threshold. Yet, just before I could reach that final inch, I hesitated, redirecting my touch to her stomach. Tahliya neither objected nor withdrew; she lay there, a mix of expectation and longing in her gaze, her relaxed posture inviting me to take that next step. I faltered, feeling the weight of my own restraint, as her expression shifted to one of subtle disappointment.

In that fleeting moment, I felt an urge to tear away her shirt and kiss her deeply, but fear gripped me, and I withdrew my hands. I noticed Tahliya’s fingers clench into fists before relaxing once more, and her lips parted in a soft sigh that echoed my own internal conflict. I quickly pulled away, pretending not to notice the quiet tension that hung between us.

Despite the noticeable chemistry, I hesitated at crucial moments, weighing my desire against the fear of crossing boundaries. I caressed her skin, seeking closeness while refraining from crossing into more intimate territory. Our connection deepened, yet I remained cautious, not wanting to jeopardize the friendship we had built.

The night was filled with dry humping and tentative touches, each encounter fraught with unspoken tension. At one point, she requested the vibrator, her eyes revealing a longing that left me conflicted. After she took care of herself, we shared a lingering hug’”a new intimacy for us, before she drove off into the night.

The following day, I saw a Facebook post from her, expressing gratitude for her partner. It was clear she felt guilt for the previous night’s escapades. I scrolled past it, heart heavy but accepting, believing it was simply a moment of weakness for her, even if it left me feeling a bit heartbroken.

Spring 2012

In the months that followed, Tahliya and I found ourselves spending significantly more time together. On most days, her flirtation deepened into something more tactile and intimate. While she occasionally attempted to maintain her usual demeanour, it often led to playful teasing that culminated in her masturbating in my bedroom. Frequently, she seemed to challenge me to take the lead, donning outfits that revealed more cleavage than usual and leaning in closer, her gaze fixed on mine with a coy smile.

She posed herself in ways designed to entice me, always inching nearer. Yet, despite the charged atmosphere between us, I hesitated to take that final step. Tahliya had never explicitly forbidden me from undressing her or touching her, and whenever I made a move, she never resisted or said no. She welcomed my caresses, allowing me to explore her body, but I always held back from crossing certain boundaries.

I had touched the sides of her breasts, her inner thighs, her feet, and her neck. I had kissed her cheeks and neck more times than I could count, yet each time, I found myself retreating just before the moment of true intimacy. I tried my best to keep things from escalating too far, despite my overwhelming desire to explore deeper.

Early Summer 2012

On a different occasion, Tahliya arrived at my place in the late afternoon, radiating an effortless charm. She wore snug white shorts and a white t-shirt, unbuttoned to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of her cleavage. A white visor framed her face, and her hair, tied back in a ponytail, cascaded down in silky waves, different from its usual style. With a light touch of makeup and her lips adorned in a creamy pink hue, she was utterly captivating, and I felt an overwhelming urge to kiss her right then and there.

As she parked her car, I walked straight to her, and our smiles exchanged a silent acknowledgement. There was a luminous quality about her, and she carried a delightful fragrance that lingered in the air. In a moment of boldness that surprised even me, I hugged her openly, something I typically avoided during daylight hours for fear of being seen. But the desire to hold her was too strong to resist. Tahliya embraced me as my ex-girlfriends had – feminine yet firm, resting her head on my shoulder. I pulled her closer and whispered how lovely she looked and smelled. It was rare for me to see her so overtly feminine, and on that day, she embodied it beautifully.

That evening, we spent hours in my computer room, her presence a comforting warmth beside me. Unlike our usual arrangement where she sat across from me, she either nestled next to me or sat on the floor, our bodies brushing against each other. I allowed her to lean against me, my heart racing as she looked up, her lips slightly parted, as if inviting a kiss. Time seemed to freeze, and despite the urge to lean in, I held back, fearing I might inadvertently hurt her. After about thirty seconds, she smiled softly and turned her gaze away, still leaning on me, and to this day, I regret not taking that chance.

Later that night, her partner called, seeking to arrange a late dinner. Tahliya hesitated, glancing at me as she expressed her fatigue, but after hanging up, she made a frustrated face and informed me she had to go. She mentioned she might not return, but I held her hands, imploring her to come back. “I really want to see you again tonight,” I said, and her smile reassured me that she would.

True to her word, she returned two hours later, and we spent another three hours together until around 3 a.m. Our time was filled with warmth and tenderness, sharing fleeting moments of closeness. During one instance, we locked eyes and smiled. When she looked away, I stole two kisses on her face. The first was a gentle peck, but the second lingered, as she tilted her head slightly toward me. I closed my eyes, hoping that in the dance of our movements, our lips might finally meet. Yet, as I pulled away, I noticed her face was still turning toward me, a moment of hesitation hanging in the air. We sighed simultaneously, a quiet acknowledgement of our unspoken connection, each lost in our thoughts as we glanced away.

We talked about things. We also did things that made us so close to each other.

I would lean my head on her shoulder, brushing my lips gently across her cheek, neck, and shoulders. When my hand rested near hers, she would place one or two fingers over mine, softly caressing them. The most daring gesture I made was to caress her arms while hugging her tightly, my desire unmistakably pressing against her. At times, she would embrace me more tightly, swaying ever so slightly to elicit a response. Her smiles were always met with a fleeting look of disappointment, a subtle acknowledgement of the tension that lingered between us. Before she left, we shared an extended, tight hug. I vividly recall her driving off, pausing at the gate to glance back at me. She waved, and I waved back as she disappeared down the road.

On another occasion, I discovered some old clothes belonging to Cindy and Monica tucked away in a box in my closet. When Tahliya visited, after a playful exchange, I asked if she would be willing to try them on for me. Her cheeks flushed as she admitted she never wore anything like that, yet she changed into Monica’s black frilly blouse and a wine-coloured skirt. I found myself wishing I had high heels for her to complete the look. After applying a touch of lipstick, she was breathtaking. In that moment, I was so captivated that I felt compelled to memorize her beauty, convincing her to let me take just one picture. I still regret not kissing her then and there, or making love to her on that couch.

Another day, we took a long walk around McNeely, engaging in deep conversation for nearly three hours. We often found ourselves sitting on benches at the baseball diamond, the bleachers at the basketball court, or the steps behind the high school. Each time, our fingers would brush against one another, but our hands never fully intertwined. Sometimes her fingers would cross over mine, and other times mine over hers. We seized every opportunity to touch, yet never achieved complete contact. In hindsight, I realize how torturous it must have been for her, just as it was for me.

Late Summer 2012

Tahliya came over during the day time, and for the first hour, we talked like we normally do about various things, like what friends do. As the minutes progressed, realizing she was closer to ending our time, as she had other things to do after, with my heart racing and my brain a blur, I laughably courageously asked her if she would be willing to change into a couple of dresses, that were left behind by Cindy and Monica. Tahliya shyly accepted, after asking me where they came from, and why they were still in my storage. When she changed into them, I was awash with longing. She was absolutely stunning and beautiful.

Her vulnerability was noticeable and incredibly touching. She was shy, blushing and pulling at the fabric as if to make herself invisible, yet the way she allowed herself to be seen in such an intimate moment made her even more radiant. Holding her hand, I twirled her around, a bit awkwardly, before she settled back onto the couch. While still holding her hand, I knelt in front of her, and kissed her hand deeply in appreciation. I wanted her to know how much it meant to me that she let herself be vulnerable like that, how beautiful she truly was, and not just in those dresses, but in her trust and openness.

Of course, I also had a bit of an inside-laugh remembering the beige underwear she wore in 2009, when I took her to get her traditional Chinese dress adjusted, as she wore a similar bra and panties this time around too. Tahliya isn’t a fan of thongs, as she feels it flosses her ass and pussy. Too bad, because she started working out a couple of months ago, and I would really love her to wear a thong. I could feel the hem of her panties whenever I hug her and my hands are placed on her waist.

A few days went by, and I saw some texts Tahliya had sent me, from her home, expressing her wish to see me, prompting me to call her immediately. She answered on the first ring, stepping out onto the patio. This was the conversation I had hoped would set the tone for our future discussions in 2018, where I could explain why I hadn’t pursued a deeper physical connection with her. To cut through the heaviness of our exchange, I told her how much I cherished our time together and how her encouragement had motivated me. I acknowledged that she still needed me to take the lead and confessed that, had our circumstances been different, I would have stripped her bare and made love to her. I expressed my desire to “fuck her brains out,” to which Tahliya responded that she would have welcomed that too. I reassured her that she made me feel special during her moments of emotional vulnerability when she allowed herself to open up to me. I emphasized that if we weren’t tied to our respective situations, this would have been a no-brainer.

That conversation etched this period of my life with her into my psyche. She knew I wanted her, and I understood she needed me. As the years progressed, particularly in 2012 and 2013, that desire sometimes grew so intense it transformed into a profound need. There were countless moments when I wanted to claim her right then and there, but I held back.

At the end of that call in 2012, despite articulating all my feelings, I was suddenly overwhelmed with grief and regret. ‘Wait, no, I can’t! I need to see you now. Can we meet?’ I implored.

Her tone perked up momentarily, only to quickly dampen again, ‘You want to see me?! But I can’t. He’s here, in the other room.’

I pleaded again, almost demanding, ‘Please, forget what I said. I really want to see you. How about I come by and we meet downstairs at the park?’

Ultimately, she didn’t want to raise any suspicions, and we remained apart. Tahliya’s voice was soft and comforting, despite the sadness that lingered in the air. As our conversation dwindled into the restlessness of the night, I mustered the courage to say, ‘Tahliya, I love you so much. I wish I could kiss you right now, and I would – you know I would!‘

Without a moment’s pause, she sighed softly and replied, ‘I love you too, Leeman.‘

In that moment, my heart shattered into a million pieces. She was merely a ten-minute drive away, and I could almost feel her warmth and the scent of her hair. Yet here we were, separated. I never imagined that this would be the only instance of complete honesty from Tahliya. For me, it wasn’t merely about the arousal of sex, the sweetness of making love, or the thrill of prolonged kisses. It was about wanting to feel her heartbeat against my chest, to hear her breath close to me, to hold her hands and kiss each of her fingers and palms. I longed to demonstrate what true friendship meant to me with her. I never would have anticipated that this moment would be both the peak of our connection and the last time we truly understood each other.

Autumn 2012

Around this time, Tahliya was making efforts to mend her relationship with her partner, attempting to make things work. Consequently, our meetings became less frequent. However, she did visit my home twice while my parents were in Hong Kong.

During her first visit, she seemed anxious and rushed. She settled across from me, speaking in a hurried tone. Less than an hour into our time together, she asked if she could use my vibrator, then hurried off to my bedroom, leaving me momentarily stunned. Moments later, I heard the buzzing sound as she sought her own pleasure. Afterwards, she lingered for about 15 minutes before leaving, her demeanour noticeably cooler than before.

The second visit occurred just a day before my parents returned from their trip. Tahliya arrived and playfully teased me, then boldly asked if she could go to my bedroom to masturbate. As she stepped through the door to the computer room, she turned to face me and asked, “Do you want to watch me?”

At first, I responded with a hesitant, “Okay,” but she didn’t hear me clearly and asked for clarification. I faltered, retreating with a soft, “Never mind. Just go do your thing.” When she returned, she told me she had climaxed twice, disappointment etched in her gaze.

By this point, it seemed she had finally resigned herself to the idea that we would never take things further. Her attitude toward me began to revert to how it had been before February 2012, which filled me with sadness. I knew I was at fault, yet I cherished even the brief moments I had with her.

Late 2012

After a significant argument with her partner, Tahliya found her way back to my place. For the first hour, she ranted and vented her frustrations, but then, quite suddenly, she stopped. She stared at me intently, shifting her focus to what I had to say. Normally, when she sought my advice, she didn’t truly listen. I surmised that she asked merely to ease her guilt about occupying someone’s time, giving the illusion that others could contribute to her life in some way.

As I shared my thoughts, I noticed her gaze fixed on me while I fell into silence. I smiled awkwardly and asked, “What?”

She returned my smile and, unexpectedly, asked if she could use my vibrator again. This time, however, she was bolder, inquiring if I wanted to join her. My desire surged’”I wanted Tahliya so desperately. I sensed it might be my last chance, but once again, I hesitated and rejected her advance. She sighed heavily, jumped up from her chair, and disappeared into my bedroom. When she returned, her demeanour had shifted; she was noticeably cold towards me.

At the front door, she said, “I can walk back to the car by myself.” Typically, she preferred I accompany her, fearing the dark and cherishing our customary hugs before parting. My heart shattered at her words, but in that moment, I did something I’m grateful for, even amid all the things I left undone. As she stepped through the front door, I grabbed her wrist. She turned back to me, wordlessly surprised.

I stepped closer, looked deeply into her eyes, and whispered, “Tahliya, I’m sorry,” before gently kissing her hand.

She gazed back at me, a mixture of sadness, anger, frustration, empathy, and stress flickering across her face. I took her hand, and together we walked slowly to her car. Once there, I held both of her hands in mine, and we simply stared at one another. We sighed in unison, followed by a shared giggle at our synchronized breaths. I enveloped her in a final hug and wished her goodnight.

As we parted, she pressed a soft kiss on my left cheek. The warmth of her presence faded gradually, like a gentle arctic breeze carrying away a cherished tune of farewell. She drove off, glancing back at me once before the gate fully opened. We waved goodbye, and she disappeared into the night.

Throughout 2013

We barely saw each other throughout 2013. Things were mostly back to normal – save the two times in earlier this year, when she came over to masturbate in my room. Both times, we barely spoke to each other. She just showed up, greeted me, spoke for about 30 minutes, then hurried off onto my bed to vibrate herself to orgasms. Afterwards, she won’t even bother hanging out like we used to. Instead, she’ll just tell me she has to go, then left.

Sometime in mid 2014

Everything began to fall into place for Tahliya. By now, our time together completely dwindled. The last time I saw her, was at the bachelor’s party she and the rest of the guys gave me in August 2013. She pushed me aside, focusing instead on her life and her partner. What once felt intimate turned superficial, shifting from “I want to see you [hug] [stare longingly]” to casual conversations like, “Yeah, things are really happening [laugh] [joke], so what’s going on with you these days, BroMo? How is Amber?” I felt crestfallen.

On a side note, I regret asking her to call me BroMo; I don’t like that label. I prefer Leeman, which feels more personal, though Lee feels impersonal. I created the nickname to establish a verbal barrier, a reminder of our emotional distance.

Before she gave birth, we met at a restaurant near my home. Her stomach had ballooned, and her breasts were noticeably full, visible through her loose t-shirt. When she mentioned the baby was kicking, she invited me to sit next to her. I hesitated briefly but obliged. Tahliya took my hand and placed it on her belly, exclaiming, “Do you feel it? She’s kicking.” I did feel it – an odd sensation – and Tahliya beamed with joy.

For that moment, as Tahliya held my hand to her belly, and feeling the kick of her baby, I felt a warm happy feeling. I felt so proud and happy for Tahliya, for she finally is a mom-to-be. Though, through my tired eyes, I saw our faces mere inches apart, recalling the last moment we shared when she kissed my face before parting those months ago. Despite being very pregnant, Tahliya looked beautiful with her ponytail and light makeup. I asked if she had been somewhere special beforehand or if she was headed somewhere after. She simply replied that she had come straight from home to see me.

Tahliya was a proud mama, and I was happy she chose to share this moment with me. I only hope her partner will step up and support her; there’s no reason for a grown man of religious conviction to shirk his responsibilities. He has hurt her repeatedly in the past, and he needs to man up and provide Tahliya with the love and happiness she deserves.

2012 unveiled Tahliya’s heart in a way I will never forget, revealing the depth of her generosity and the artistry of her emotions. Amid the turbulence of that time, she shared with me her creative soul and tenderness. Yet, her openness stirred a bittersweet ache within me.

My desires tormented me. I was drawn to Tahliya completely, yet cast myself as the altruistic protector – a white knight who placed her dreams above my own. I yearned to kiss her, to show her love’s true essence, to strip away life’s weight and embrace each other’s vulnerabilities. I wanted badly to give her pleasure and to receive pleasure with her willing eager body. Yet, fear anchored me. I worried I might disrupt her life, add chaos to a peace she sought. Thus, I held back. In exercising restraint, I denied her the emotional and physical connection she longed for, instead placing my faith in her partner’s potential to change. I hoped he would come to embrace his role as a devoted father and recognize the importance of being a supportive husband. Together, perhaps they could realize her vision of a large loving, united family.

Betrayal

Pepper shared with me a story from her past that left me both in awe and inspired. A tale of growth and incredible maturity. Between the ages of 19 and 21, she had a two-year relationship with a man who was 47 when they met, He was trapped in a marriage with a toxic and emotionally abusive woman, while Pepper was emerging from her own problematic relationship with an insecure, controlling partner. Their connection became a sanctuary for her, a space where she could rediscover herself and rebuild her life after enduring difficult relationships.

For two years, the man not only treated her with respect and kindness but imparted to her a wealth of perspectives that helped her grow in ways she hadn’t thought possible. Then, in an unexpected turn, he ended their relationship. He had decided to leave his marriage and, in doing so, realized he needed to take time for himself. Grieving the dissolution of his marriage and seeking to reinvent his life, he chose to travel the world and leave everything behind, including Pepper. Heartbroken, she accepted his decision with grace, allowing him the freedom he sought.

Years later, long after their lives had taken different paths, Pepper found him again. This time, it was not to rekindle their romance but to bring closure and perhaps explore a deeper understanding of their bond. They reunited in his hotel room and spent the night talking. They spent hours together in laughter, sadness, and raw honesty. They shared moments of deep vulnerability, crying over past pains, both shared and separate, and rediscovered parts of themselves through each other. They drank wine, ate chocolate cake, enjoyed burgers from the hotel bar, and even played checkers. It was a meeting of souls, not bodies. Though they kissed and embraced, it was not about rekindling physical intimacy but about creating closure and celebrating the beauty of their connection.

At the end of the night, she went home feeling fulfilled and profoundly motivated. He later sent her a card, expressing gratitude for giving him the closure he didn’t realize he needed. Whether they continued to stay in touch or not, the experience was transformative for them both.

When Pepper shared this story with me, I was struck by its maturity and depth. I was envious in a way, because it reminded me how rare such experiences are. Most of my past relationships, up to that point, had been broken or so brief that they left no room for the kind of emotional evolution she described.

Her story moved me deeply, and it became the spark for wanting to have an open, honest conversation with you about 2012. From 2014 onward, I saw how your temperament shifted – how pettiness, quick anger, and bitterness began to surface more often. Yet, even in those moments, you tried to reach out to me through empathy, as if recognizing the unique bond we shared. I felt that connection, fragile yet special, even as the weight of your growing stress and the shadows of emotional and physical neglect started to consume you. Despite it all, I held onto hope. Hope that you would see me, not as just another acquaintance among your so-called friends, but for who I was and for the depth of what we had once shared.

Alas, to my shock, you laughed off my attempt to bring up 2012, made disparaging remarks, and accused me of reading too much into things. You talked over me, deflected my feelings and shamed me for holding onto a fantasy. In your narrative, you completely wiped away all but one day in 2012, focused on the one day in February 2012, and shifting the blame onto me, disregarding your role in initiating it. You gaslighted me, deflected your shame onto me to protect your own conscience. I rather not revisit these memories, but I must illustrate how cruel and unjust you had become. Below were key moments of what you said.

Tahliya said:

I can’t believe you’re still hung up on that! Seriously, nothing ever happened between us, and nothing ever will. How dense do you have to be to not get that by now? It was all just playful teasing, nothing more! You, of all people, should’ve moved on ages ago with all the girls you’ve been with. I mean, for a nerd, you didn’t exactly struggle to keep that little black book full, right? Stop obsessing over something that’s been dead and buried for years! Whatever fantasy you cooked up in your head about me needs to stay there’”far away from reality. ‘Us’ was never a thing, not in the past, not now, and definitely not in the future. I’m telling you this because I think you can handle the truth: it’s time to let go and grow up. You’re not Daffodil. While you look good in fantasy, in reality, I married up! Look, anything I said or did back then was clearly just a joke! I was curious, but it wasn’t serious. You said it was hot or something, but I made sure I didn’t take my clothes off! We dry humped a little, and then I went home. That’s it! We’re friends, and sometimes female friends mess around like that – teasing, joking, maybe a little friendly flirting. Any guy with common sense should know it doesn’t mean anything! Honestly, I hope you can just let this go already. Fine, if it helps, here’s another ‘tease’ for you: yes, I’ve masturbated to you before, and yes, I’ve had a sex dream about you. But that’s all it ever was – just fantasy, like whatever you’re holding onto from that day. It wasn’t real. Now let’s move on and stop dwelling on something so insignificant!

Was what you said to me something you believe friends say to each other? Is this what a “special relationship” built on a unique bond looks like to you? Did you take pride in those words, in how they were delivered? Did it bring you satisfaction to be dismissive, disparaging, deflective, and patronizing?

Did your intention to hurt me, bring you closer to loving your husband more? Did hurting me, move your husband to do more for you?

If I had been relentless and unreasonable, being rejected multiple times, but keep pestering you week after week, demanding you revisit 2012 with me, I would certainly understand that response born from frustration, anger, and stress, but I raised this issue only once, and I did so with calm and respect. Yet, despite that, you got so triggered that you felt the need to trample over me. Why? What did you gain from tearing me down in that moment?

I wish you hadn’t told me you loved me back in the summer of 2012, only to tear me down with such a cold betrayal in 2018.

The 2009 version of you would have smacked me upside my head for staying friends with the 2018 version of you. The 2012 version of you would have cried and hugged me, for seeing the way the 2018 version of you had treated me.

So it was here, our relationship started to falter. I know I should have ended our friendship right then and there.

In 2020, I made another attempt to address the unresolved tension between us, as the strain of our fractured friendship had become a significant emotional burden. I spent three weeks carefully crafting and revising a letter, hoping it would express my feelings clearly and honestly. When I reached out to you to arrange a time to talk, you assured me you would get back to me. I waited, expecting it to take a week at most, but two weeks passed with no word. Frustrated and overwhelmed by anxiety, I messaged you to express my stress over the delay. Your response was explosive. you lashed out, saying you didn’t have time to deal with my issues because a family member had recently passed away. When I tried to reason that your busy life didn’t excuse your dismissive behaviour, you retaliated by quoting Matthew 7:5, implying I was being a hypocrite.

I chose not to respond, nor argue, because you were being unreasonable, and I already wanted to end our friendship. However, two days later, you messaged again, offering to talk that day if I was willing. Despite feeling hurt by your earlier outburst, I decided to let it go and called you. During the one hour conversation, I read the letter to you, pouring out my thoughts and feelings. However, it quickly became clear you didn’t truly hear what I told you. Much like our conversation in 2018, you spoke over me and avoided addressing most of what I had said. You even pointed out things I never said in my letter, like your mind just made things up, to twist things to your rhetoric. Instead, you repeated many of the same points you had made from 2018, though this time with a less condescending, and slightly more empathetic tone.

Yet, your so-called empathy felt misaligned with the core issues I was trying to discuss. Once again, you brought up irrelevant details, mentioning you had masturbated to me and had dreams of a sexual nature. These admissions were entirely unwelcome, as my focus was never about physical intimacy between us, but on the emotional disconnect and unresolved feelings surrounding 2012. I needed you to engage in an honest, meaningful conversation about our friendship, to help us repair and regrow. Alas, it became apparent that you weren’t interested in genuine communication. Your constant references to sex, even while downplaying its importance in your life, only underscored your frustration and inner conflict. Your remarks about 2012 reflected a fixation on physicality that didn’t align with the emotional depth I sought. For someone who often claimed that sex wasn’t a priority, your behaviour told a different story.

That conversation didn’t immediately sever our connection, but it solidified the extent of the rot in our relationship. By this point, it had become irreparable. I stopped reaching out to you, responding to only a fraction of your messages. For every eight messages you sent, I replied to one. I turned down meet-ups, agreeing only when I felt obligated, rather than genuinely wanting to see you. It was here that I quietly accepted the end of our friendship and began to distance myself emotionally and physically.

At the end of August 2024, you referenced the letter you read during your trip in San Diego, with the following question.

Tahliya said: Can I ask why you felt it was your “final duty” to tell me? Sounds like you’re on your death bed or something…

And my response was as thus.

Leeman said:

If within the next 12 or so months, you don’t notice anything different from me, then whatever I had said there in my letter to you, doesn’t matter anyway because it will continue to be, as it has always been for you.

If however, within the next 12 or so months, you do notice things, then when you realize what those things are, you would have the exact answer then, through your own awareness and willingness.

Regardless, at the end of the day, it really doesn’t matter anyway. It only matters, when it matters. Otherwise, it doesn’t matter.

This was me walking on eggshells around you, due to the trauma you had inflicted upon me over the years. Basically, it meant that if you hadn’t noticed anything different in our relationship dynamics since 2014, then unless you managed to unbury yourself from all of this toxic rot you’ve grown accustomed to, then you will obviously not notice that our relationship is nearing its end.

Since our relationship was nearing its end, as your friend, it was my final duty to tell you, that you can still find ways to remind your husband of the vows he made before God, and to rekindle the love between you two.Â

The code at the end of that letter, was Base64 encoded. It was this:

QWRpb3MgY2FyaW5vLiBJIGp1c3Qgd2lzaCBJIGhhZCB0aGUgY2hhbmNlIHRvIHRyd Wx5IGxvdmUgeW91IGFuZCBzaG93IHlvdSB0aGF0IGxvdmUuIEkgYWxzbyBmYW50Y XNpemVkIHRoYXQgeW91IHdvdWxkIGZpbmFsbHkgc3BlYWsgd2l0aCBtZSByZXNwZ WN0ZnVsbHksIGNvbXBsZXRlbHkgaG9uZXN0bHksIGFuZCBhc2sgbWUgYWxsIHRoZ SByaWdodCBxdWVzdGlvbnMgYXMgeW91IG9uY2UgZGlkLiBBbGFzIHlvdSBkaWQgbm 90LCBhbmQgd2lsbCBuZXZlci4gQXMgdGh1cywgSSByZWxlYXNlIG15c2VsZiBmcm9tIH lvdS4gRG8gd2hhdGV2ZXIgcGxlYXNlcyB5b3UgZnJvbSBub3cgb24u

Decoded (https://www.base64decode.org/), this is what it said:

Adios carino. I just wish I had the chance to truly love you and show you that love. I also fantasized that you would finally speak with me respectfully, completely honestly, and ask me all the right questions as you once did. Alas you did not, and will never. As thus, I release myself from you. Do whatever pleases you from now on.

Of course, after a little more mild guilt-tripping from you, I eventually told you the following:

Leeman said:

Coinciding my answer to your question, it’s because I’ve always wanted to have an open honest conversation with you about everything, but every time I brought it up in the past, it was always deflected and it was always focused on the wrong things. You have very bad massive selective memory. I cannot have that open honest conversation with you, without being attacked for it, or deflected into some other thing. For years, I’ve had to struggle with this, as it honestly gave me a lot of emotional and mental grief. That is, until somewhat recently, when I decided back in February that I wanted to meet with you in person, alone, to have that open honest conversation, which also meant, I would have read or shown you my private blog entries (The Dishonest Kiss; Sincerely, Thalia; and Adios Carmino) that was based on a series of private diaries, I had meticulously documented over a period of time.

Hence, why my ‘tone’ with you from February to July was different, than how I normally communicated with you in the past, because I wanted to set an entirely different personality and context for when we were finally able to have that conversation. Unfortunately, due to a series of blunders on my part, combined with impatience, it lead to our little semi-hostile chat a few weeks ago, which I subdued myself and pretty much accepted my fate. Since our little chat a few weeks ago, the dynamics between you and I have changed. You will likely never notice this change. That’s why I previously said, “at the end of the day, it really doesn’t matter anyway” because you won’t notice a thing.

In December 2023, I decided that I will channel all of my emotions and mental energy relating to you, focused into that open honest conversation I was to have with you. Since our chat a few weeks ago, I realized our open honest conversation will never happen because of what you said to me, how you said it to me, and the fact, you have a totally different memory of everything than what my documentation has recorded. So, with whatever was left of that lingering emotion, expended so poorly over the last few months, I mustered up whatever was left, and gave advice “as my final duty” within that mindset, that I thought was important to what you had shared with me about your marriage, despite everything else. In that moment, it was no longer about what I wanted to do for you. Rather, it was about the hope of what you and Ben can do for each other.

Unless you specifically ask for it, and I am 99.99% certain you won’t, you will never see/hear me talk about this stuff again. So worry not, no more cryptic messages, or encoded meanings, or things that make you sigh like this will be shared with you again.

I dreaded waiting for you to respond, because I was 100% sure you would react to me, the same way you did in 2018 and 2020, but perhaps, less immature and more angry. Unfortunately, you proved me right, with the following:

Tahliya said:

TBH, since that’s what it seems like you’re up for… this is starting to piss me off.

It’s like you’re beating a dead horse and u like to talk about beating a dead horse.

Yes I have shit memory. But I also lead one of the busiest lives I know. And honestly I don’t think u should focus so much on ruminating on things of stuff. The past is the past and we evolve and change as people to some extent as do relationships. They can never be the same. God I hope not. I would hope there’s a maturity that comes with experience and all that small stuff we used to sweat over isn’t as big of a deal now this shouldn’t really be given much thought.

To assume things will always be 100% the same is not realistic, but naive. And you beating around the bush is super annoying. It’s like you’re a kid again who can’t answer straight or, worse an adult who likes to play games to hook someone in

I hope it’s not the latter. I know you’re someone who has good intentions but sometimes it just doesn’t come out right, as expressive and eloquent as u can be. But I also know you can get triggered easily and retreat like a crab into a hole to lick it’s wounds. I just hope u can understand where I’m coming from. If not, that’s OK. Maybe just take a break and focus on what’s most important. Your mental health, physical health, Amber, Rudy, your parents…

Your words sometimes feel like cuts and I suppose my words can also. I assume that if u can dish it u can also take it. So, I’m not trying to be an asshole

I’m genuinely tired of this beat around bush shit and stuff that goes on and on should have been settled. I just don’t want to give it more air time than it needs. Unless u disagree about the amount of requisite time it needs which is a diff matter entirely.

Anyway, this is getting too long… I really hope you don’t take this the wrong way. Am I naive to think you won’t?

We’re all busy.

We all have busy lives. The world doesn’t stop turning just because you have a busy life. Plus, you are certainly not the busiest person I know. Of all of the people I know that top the busy chart, you’re about number seven.

I’m tired of hearing “I have a busy life.” You don’t get to use your life’s chaos as a trump card to downplay my efforts. I didn’t hand you 300 hours of my time and emotional labour just so you could treat it like a passing whim I should be ashamed of.

I’m busy too.

Amber’s the primary income earner while I reconfigure my work and income streams. I handle groceries, cooking, bills, chores, renovations, errands, tech, and care for our dog – all the while managing my own health and projects. Yet somehow, I still found the time to write a five-part, 90-page archive for you, that took nearly 300 hours to craft. Meanwhile, you couldn’t even open a blog post over a weekend.

Don’t talk to me about “busy.” Your time is not more valuable than mine. And if you truly cared, you would’ve made the space, because we always do for the things that matter.

I didn’t need you to move mountains. I just needed you to show up honestly. But you didn’t. You ghosted the work, ghosted the responsibility, and now want to slap a “life’s hard” sticker on it like that excuses everything?

No.

You failed me. And worse, you made me feel like I was the problem for expecting otherwise.

Half of your wounds, are self-inflicted.

Having stress, even a lot of stress is a normality of having a lot of things to do in one’s life, but you’re not just stressed. You’re angry, easily triggered, and you ball up all of your issues, then unleash them out all at once, because you are sexually frustrated and emotionally neglected. You have no outlet for stress, and no way to satisfy your needs. When you think you want to masturbate, you can’t, because you’re turned off by the person you married. So you continue to live in this wretched cycle of anger, negative sensitivity, and being chronically tense.

You accused me of ruminating on the past, not being able to evolve, not being able to mature, that I am playing games with you, that I get easily triggered, then go hide like a hermit crab to lick my wounds, but when I read that, it felt like you were talking about yourself. You’re literally the one who is like a hermit crab, who gets into fights with your husband, with no solution in sight, for years and years, then retreat into your own head space, your own little hobbies, just to lick your wounds, wash, repeat, over and over again.

Your projection is a betrayal of the bond we once shared. You’ve chosen to twist the truth and undermine everything I’ve stood for just to satisfy your own fragile ego. And let me make this clear: just because your marriage is a train wreck with a childish neglectful husband, doesn’t mean you get to lash out at others and tarnish their character to fill the void in your own life.

None of my other relationships, who consider us to have unique bonds and special relationships, would ever address me the way you did – ever. We’ve had arguments, disagreements, and even misunderstandings, but in those relationships, they never put me down, never belittle me, and never disrespect me the way you have. They would never attack my character.

When Amber came home, and saw me laying in bed with a blank expression on my face, she asked what happened, then saw my phone in my hand, on my chest. She asked if she could take a peak at it, and so she did. She posted a very angry blog post on her website, titled “Dear Tahliya” (https://lilcanvasbean.com/dear-you/2025/amber/dear-thalia).

In March, you wanted to see me at least twice, three times maybe, even four. You sounded very bubbly, playful, eager, and sweetly when you expressed yourself. You wanted to genuinely try on pretty girly dresses for me, wear high heels if I held your hand, and asked how I felt when I saw you in June at Andy’s recital. You made me very happy. When you dropped the quinoa off at my home, honestly, if you had exited your car, I would have hugged you a long tight one, and kissed your lips. I actually considered asking you to step out of your car, but I chickened out. Forget about the dinner you had to go to. Just come back home with me. I would have made you some yummy dinner and we could have caught up for a couple of hours. You could have told your family you were stuck in traffic!

Alas, by the end of August, you’re the busiest person you know – exactly the way you responded in 2018 and 2020. I’m a burden to your life. You don’t have time for me, at all. Like your time is more important than everyone else’s. Like everyone should make way for you, and bow down to you, because you are superior. Who am I really? Just a peasant that is only useful when you need me to update your websites, and occasionally give me enough of your time, to throw me some scraps of your friendship.

I too am tired of all of this. I too didn’t want to give this more time than it needed. However, unlike you, it was never about how much time I needed from you. Instead, I’ve been trying to fight for us, to try to repair what we were losing. I needed you, my friend, to help me with that, and now, it’s too late.

From 2003 to 2013, whenever you needed me, I dropped everything for you. Every time you sent a text, hesitant and worried I might be too busy, I always rearranged my schedule – rescheduled work, postponed meetings with clients, or even shifted appointments with partners, just to show up for you. All it took was the smallest hint that you needed me, and I was there. I never hesitated, never made excuses. At that time, I was working an intense schedule – 10 to 16 hours a day, 5 to 7 days a week, especially during the demanding years leading up to the 2010 Olympics. Yet, no matter how overwhelming my workload was, I never questioned your requests. I ended meetings on the spot if I was in one. I left wherever I was, even rushing home or driving over to your place at 2am, just to walk around the neighbourhood with you. This was before you were married. I did all of that without asking anything in return.

I’ve never been the type to lean on my friends for help. Even when my relationship with Cindy ended in early 2006 – a time when I could have reached out for support, but I didn’t. I spoke about it briefly with you, shared a few blog entries, but I never called or texted, asking for anything. It’s just not who I am.

But in all those years from 2018 to now, did you ever stop to truly see what I was giving? To understand what it meant for me to be there for you, time and again?

From 2007 to 2013, *I* was the busiest person you knew – I was the busiest person all of my friends knew. Did I complain to you that I was?! Did I reject and deny you because I was the busiest person everyone knew?! NO.

You told me that you hope I won’t take what you said the wrong way, but I dare say, it is you who has taken EVERYTHING THE WRONG WAY. You are so ashamed of revisiting 2012, that you would rather betray me, a friendship that had lasted half of your lifetime, and nearly half of mine, just to protect your delicate self-esteem. Just to protect that bullshit sanctity of your very broken rotten marriage.

Your shame offends me.

How can you hold that our connection is special and unique, when this is how you treat me? I’ve never been ashamed of what we shared, however brief, because my heart was clear, my intentions true.

You rhetorically asked recently, if it was possible for me to just see you as the ugly friend I don’t want to fuck, based on what you perceived as the reason why I wanted to bring up 2012. Perhaps, it’s not that I should think of you as the ugly friend I don’t want to fuck. Rather, you should just continue to be dismissive, deflective, disparaging, patronizing, and gaslight. That will certainly turn me off affectionately, but I’m sure it will also turn me off from you entirely as a friend as well.

Every now and then, I look at that picture of you and I sitting next to each other, with our other friends at Hon’s restaurant, and all I see is you, my dear friend, whom I had a crush on from 2003 to 2007, who introduced me to avocado bubble tea, who was goofy, playful, empathetic, intelligent, and kind. You enjoyed playing video games on the WII, had asked me to pick you up from the airport, just to eat one of our favourite foods: Pho, and go out on bike rides, watch movies at your place, and just be great with each other.

You were once kind, Tahliya – you were once kind to me, and now, you’re just bitter, easily triggered, quick to judge, and haven’t evolved since 2015.

Deflated Elephant

There’s a moment in Man of Steel that tugs at my soul every time. When General Zod unleashes the World Engine, bent on reshaping Earth for his people, the stakes are cataclysmic. Yet Superman, burdened with the weight of two worlds, races against time and destruction, pouring every ounce of his strength into a desperate bid to save humanity. It’s raw. It’s relentless. And in that battle between hope and despair, I find my tears flowing. Watch it. Feel it. It’s not just a scene – it’s a testament to the human spirit wrapped in alien strength.

Daffodil wasn’t supposed to just look like Superman. Daffodil was supposed to be Superman – your Superman.

In 2008, about a year before you got married, Fong asked me why I never went after you. The following is an excerpt of a blog I had posted on Leemanism, that was unpublished a few months ago.

The night sky stretched above like a tapestry of shadows and memories. I traced the outlines of the trees from my childhood, their darkened forms swaying slightly in the cool breeze. The swing beneath me creaked softly with each motion, a rhythm that matched my thoughts. Finally, I broke the silence, speaking more to myself than to Fong.

“She’s not the type to explore a relationship without clear boundaries, and honestly, ever since I found out I couldn’t father children, I’ve come to value open-ended relationships – connections where we focus on each other without the weight of external expectations. She’d be delightful to share life with, no doubt, but she’s anchored by a very specific vision of what she wants. Experimentation isn’t part of her equation. Not everyone reaches a point where they see relationships, as they come and go, as growth and discovery, as experiences that shape us, rather than projects to mold our partners into roles that suit their ambitions. Tahliya wants a large family, like the one she grew up in. That’s valid. However, in my view, the wisdom gained from living, loving, and failing is invaluable. It teaches you what truly works and what doesn’t. Plus, she honestly believes a big dick will automatically give her incredible orgasms. Isn’t that fucking naive?”

I paused, listening to the faint rustle of leaves and the weight of my own words, wondering if Fong might chime in. When he didn’t, I pressed on.

“You know, the real reason things didn’t work out between you and her isn’t because you lacked compatibility. It was because she wanted to marry a Christian man. You could have offered her nearly everything she desired, and still, it wouldn’t have been enough. She dismissed the depth of your humanity because of that one missing piece, and now, she’s engaged to someone who, frankly, seems like smoke and mirrors. Sure, he’s handsome, drives a flashy car, and has a promising career, but how much has she really unpacked about him? Has she asked him the hard questions about his views on LGBTQ+ rights, for instance? Or how he envisions being a supportive husband, or even what kind of father he dreams of being? From what I’ve seen and heard, he strikes me as polished but hollow. He is a penny a thousand.”

Fong interrupted with a slight smirk, “You mean a dime a dozen?”

I gave him a blank stare, suppressing a grin, as he laughed softly, motioning for me to continue.

“From where I stand,” I resumed, “it feels like she’s projecting her hopes onto him, amplifying what she admires and ignoring what she should question. I’m not saying he’s a bad man. I’m just saying he doesn’t strike me as someone who carries the weight of real substance – not like you. Of course, I’m not unbiased. I know you. I know your flaws, yes, but I also know your depth, your kindness, and your intellect. So why would I be drawn to someone who dismissed all of that in you? And not just dismissed it, but chose someone based on a criteria that to me, feel so shallow.”

The swing’s rhythm slowed as I sighed. “I’m not saying she shouldn’t hold fast to her faith. Her faith is vital, but faith is about fostering a relationship with the divine, not about surrounding yourself with others who merely reflect your religion back at you. She broke your heart, and, by extension, mine, and I fear in trying so hard to craft a life that fits her ideal, she’s losing sight of the life she could have had with someone who truly sees and loves her.“

You would have married the man I hold in high esteem, and he would have cherished you as you deserved. In turn, you would have loved him with the depth that his heart longed for. Together, you would have created a beautiful life and weave a powerful story. Your children would not only have a devoted and loving father, but also a lifelong friend. While you would have found in him not just a steadfast partner, but a soulmate with whom you could have journeyed through life and beyond. And I would have celebrated the two of you, from the depths of my heart, to the fathomless abyss of my soul. I would have revered your relationship, your bond, your great family. Regrettably, it was not to be.

In short, I was profoundly disappointed in you. You sought comfort in the familiar, following a path trodden by those who shared your faith, yet you failed to examine the essence of that faith itself. It was not enough that Fong admired you, supported you, respected you, and loved you wholeheartedly. He accepted you fully, including your religion, but you couldn’t extend the same grace in return because he didn’t share the same religious label. You turned away from a relationship rich with proven depth and substance, choosing instead to pursue one where the primary qualification was the shared label of “Christian”.

I recall when you and Fong parted ways, you came to me in person, your eyes stained red and tears silently streaming down your face. I gently, albeit candidly, scolded you, reminded you that faith is a personal journey, irrespective of whom you choose to share your life with. I expressed my hope that you would not come to regret this decision, for just because someone aligns with the name of your religion, doesn’t guarantee a romantic connection or compatibility as a couple. You seemed to appreciate my brief counsel and offered no argument. You sighed, and I remained by your side in quiet solidarity.

To be clear, your faith is not shallow, far from it. It holds immense meaning, and I respect that, but the notion that alignment in faith should dictate the foundation of a partnership, diminishes its depth. By prioritizing superficial alignment over genuine connection, you undermined what could have been an extraordinary bond. It saddens me to see you cling to the idea that faith, without deeper consideration, could outweigh the irreplaceable value of understanding, devotion, and mutual growth.

You broke my heart, as you broke Fong’s heart, and now, you suffer for it.

Fong was a 9 out of 10, but in your quest for finding someone to fulfill the idea of an ultra perfect relationship in marriage, you sought out a Christian man, who would make up the lost point, resulting in a husband who in your mind, is a 10 out of 10. In the end, you ended up with someone who is 3 out of 10 at best. As a Christian, who chose a Christian man as your partner, how has the last fifteen years unfolded for you? Surely, prayer should have guided you both toward honouring the sacred vows you exchanged, right? Yet, you’ve endured a decade and a half with a husband who falls short of even the bare minimum – a bond seemingly more performative than transformative.

Is your relationship with God truly personal and profound, or is it shaped by the validation of those who simply call themselves Christian? Faith, deepened and illuminated by the wisdom religion offers, should have been the foundation of your journey. The people you welcome into your life, regardless of their labels or roles, are all threads woven into a greater tapestry – a living testament to your walk through life, capturing the beauty and trials of your moments on Earth. God placed a paintbrush in your hand, entrusting you to paint the story of your life – a masterpiece shaped by His signs and signals. Yet, with the free will He bestowed upon you, He urged you to create not just a life guided by His whispers, but one boldly crafted by your own choices, a reflection of the freedom and purpose He has gifted you. Fong was a gift to you, and you squandered it.

You should have trusted your personal relationship with God. You should have trusted your relationship with Fong.

Throughout the years of your marriage, the following were some of the things you’ve said to me. Variations of those were also said in other times.

Tahliya said: I had imagined our first night together would be magical, a moment of deep connection and vulnerability. Instead, it was over before it began. He penetrated me, it hurt like hell, and then he was done.
-in 2009, weeks after your honeymoon

Tahliya said: I’ve never been able to reach orgasms with him. He fancies himself a sex god, but the truth is, I’ve been faking it all along, only to finish myself off when he’s not around.
-and variations of that throughout the years from 2009 to the present

Tahliya said: I’ve stopped trying to tell him what I need. These days, I just handle things myself, and on the rare occasions he does help, it’s only after some nagging.
-and variations of that from 2017 to the present

Tahliya said: I just want to feel like he actually cares about how I feel and what I think, but he’s only particularly caring when he wants something from me, like sex. For example, when I asked him to set the blinds a certain way, he would belittle me, thinking it’s absurd for having the thoughts I have. It’s not just a mental thing. If the blinds are down, people on the outside can look in. If they are up, then I can see if there are people outside. Do you know what I mean? It’s little things like this, he can’t even do and he makes everything into a competition. Like fucking hell!
– and variations of that from 2014 to the present

Tahliya said: Instead of making everything about me, the least he could do is stop the blaming and offer some comfort. All I really need is some empathy. Sometimes, I wonder if he even loves me.
– in the spring of 2012, as you sobbed in my arms while brushing your hair with my hand

Tahliya said: Can I stay here a little longer? I don’t want to see him. I wish I can stay here tonight.
– in the summer of 2012, after he said very hurtful words to you

You’re in denial, if you believe your husband has recently started to speak your love language.

He hasn’t.

I remember you once described your ideal man. Strong, attentive, patient, passionate, and kind… And this is who you chose instead.

You once dreamed of a man who would be your equal. Instead, you ended up with one who doesn’t try to understand your body, doesn’t care that you can’t orgasm, and treats your pleasure like an afterthought. He doesn’t see your beauty, doesn’t encourage your dreams, and rarely parents beside you – unless you cry for help. He speaks your love language only when it benefits him.

He doesn’t listen unless you nag. Doesn’t show up unless forced. You call that love? That’s not love. That’s survival.

Yet, you stayed. You chose that – for over fifteen years. You let your children grow up watching their mother shrink in silence. Fools may call that loyalty, but I dare say, that’s just cowardice dressed in tradition – a martyrdom no one asked for, and a sacrifice that bred only resentment, not respect.

It only seems like he’s doing more these days because your expectations have dropped so low, anything above “bare minimum” feels like effort. It only seems like he’s trying because you’ve learned to live without help. It only seems like he cares because you’ve been gaslit into thinking this is the best it’s going to get.

In June, you said you couldn’t be in a relationship like mine because you needed commitment, and that your husband has your back when it truly matters.

So I ask you this: In what way has your husband demonstrated commitment? How has he upheld the vows he made to you? You say he “has your back” when it matters most, but when exactly is that? On your deathbed? After a car accident? During terminal illness? A partner who barely engages with you, who only speaks your love language on his terms, and who exists as little more than a gimmick to your children, is far from the ideal anyone should aspire to in a relationship.

And let’s be honest – having someone “have your back only when it matters” is not something to boast about. That’s not love. That’s the bare minimum of decency. You deserve more than just a safety net when things fall apart. You deserve someone who stands beside you every day, and not just when the storm rolls in.

Tahliya said: When I asked if I could have another child, he responded, “It’s your funeral.”
-in 2022

It’s almost laughable how, during our January 23rd meeting, you twisted this quote yet again to fit your latest revisionist narrative. I don’t even remember what your newest drivel was – and I really don’t give a flying fuck. Every time this line resurfaces, your story morphs. You’ve rewritten the meaning behind it so many times, it’s practically a fable now. But no matter how neatly you fold your falsehoods into tidy compartments, a lie – no matter how well-organized – is still a lie.

I remember exactly what you told me back in 2022, when you were visibly pregnant. You said, plain as day, that you asked your husband if you could have another child, and his response was, “It’s your funeral.” You told me he said it casually, with that same dead-eyed detachment he reserves for anything requiring actual effort. And you, already exhausted and defeated, just accepted it – knowing damn well he wouldn’t lift a finger. Not as a husband. Not as a father. Not even as a basic fucking adult.

You even added, matter-of-factly, that you were just waiting until the kids were old enough so you could finally divorce him.

And yet – when I brought this up during our meeting, you waved it away like a smudge on a window, saying, “Sometimes, I say things like that to make it feel like I’m still in control, but I don’t mean it. Don’t all couples say things like that during arguments?”

NOT IN HEALTHY RELATIONSHIPS, THEY DON’T!

I was stunned. Absolutely gobsmacked. How can you insist this man “has your back” when his words spit apathy and disdain in your face? Of course he said it – because he knew, without question, that he wouldn’t have to do anything. Not for the baby. Not for the house. Not for you. And for you to now say that you only wanted to divorce him because it gave you some sense of control?

That’s not empowerment. That’s just another cop-out.

Also, when you told him about your third website, his first instinct wasn’t curiosity or excitement. It was dismissal. He told you not to bother. To stay in your lane. To stick with what you know.

Meanwhile, I registered the domain within hours. I built the website. Gave it a name. A home. A face. Not because I had to, but because I believed in you.

He didn’t help you build it. He didn’t encourage it. He only gave feedback once it already existed.

That’s not support – that’s damage control. You wanted to create something beautiful. He saw it as a threat. I saw it as you.

For all I care, he can go fuck himself. This isn’t about whether dreams and ambitions are “realistic” or not. It’s about daring to have them in the first place and having someone in your corner cheering you on, ready to do what it takes to help you succeed. How can you claim he has your back when his first instinct was to tear your aspirations down?

Tahliya said: Maybe I’ll wait until the kids are old enough, and we’ll get a divorce.
-sometime in 2022 while pregnant with your last baby

Once again, I ask you, in what ways has your husband truly supported you? How has he shown commitment to your needs and wants when he couldn’t even comfort you when your dog was frightened and disoriented? ‘Oh no! He had an ear ache?! It must be the end of the world for him!’ You were clearly distressed and that’s all he needed to know, to be a supportive husband who should have your back.

True support isn’t selective or convenient.

It’s constant.

When you justify his behaviour, you inadvertently diminish your self-worth. Reflecting on moments like questioning whether you’ve become asexual, considering divorce, or giving me that solemn, pained look when I suggested you should have married Fong, are all glaring signs that your husband neither fully supports you, nor has your back.

Anyone with a shred of humanity – a stranger, a neighbour, a decent friend, or a close family member like your sister, would instinctively offer their support in a time of crisis. So to claim that your husband’s support only matters during such moments is not the praise you might think it is. Instead, it paints a picture of a relationship that feels bleak and insubstantial, one where the bare minimum is framed as a virtue. That’s not something to boast about. It’s something to deeply question.

I literally found Amber in Germany, which was 7,700 kilometres away, and brought her here! How am I less committed, just because we have an open relationship?! Being in an open relationship, means we are both secured and confident in our marriage. Whatever we experience outside of that, adds flavour to our own. Next time, you want to diminish my relationship dynamics as being less committed, you should look at yourself in the mirror. The only marriages I know that have next to no commitment are couples who stay married because ‘of the kids’ and have their finances intertwined, where otherwise, their marriage is crap.

My mentor: A relationship should be your happy place, not where you beg your partner to act right.
-sometime in 2005

I have Amber’s back no matter what. I am committed to her needs and wants, no matter what. If I can do it, I will do it. No ear ache is going to stop me.

When I was at the peak of my feverish pneumonia, Amber woke up in the middle of the night, and found out I was trying to cook her lunch for work. She lovingly scolded me and asked me to stop, but I finished what I did, made her lunch and dinner for the night, knowing I probably would be sleeping later. When she went to work, in my dazed-state, I vacuumed the house, cleaned the kitchen, scrubbed the bathroom, put away laundry, answered client emails, and then laid in the bathtub of hot water for two hours, because I was aching all over. I tried working out lightly, but my strength turned against me. When Amber came home that day, I put on a mask, and hugged her. Then I asked if she wanted a shower or a bath. If a bath, I would have prepared one for her. She immediately stopped me, dropped her bags, and hurried me back into bed. Again, she lovingly scolded me for doing too much when I was so damn sick.

My mentor: A relationship will only work, when those involved have the same intention of growing together and supporting each other.
-sometime in 2005

A couple of years ago, late at night, Amber had a terrifying nightmare. I was in the middle of an intense online game, but as soon as I heard her scream, I told my team, “My wife needs me” and left immediately. I laid beside her, held her close, stroking her hair until she felt safe again. I offered her warm milk, tucked her back into bed, and checked on her every half hour until her work alarm went off. I urged her to call in sick so we could spend the day together doing something fun, to help balance her mind and mood again.

My mentor: An environment that is not safe to disagree in, is not an environment focused on growth. It’s an environment focused on control.
-sometime in 2005

Also, in the event that my life ends before hers, I’ve ensured she’ll be supported, with $100,000 life insurance and a mortgage-free home. Minor debts will be cleared next year. My commitment to her extends beyond moments of crisis. Through my vows, even before we were married, I promised to have her back, every day. I intend to keep that promise every single day, from our first to my last.

You know what else I do almost every day, rain or shine, snow or wind? Around 4:20pm, when Amber is walking down Minoru, I head out to meet her. About a third of the way up from the corner of Blundell, I wave when I see her. We walk up to each other, share a little kiss, and I take her lunch bag. Hand in hand, we walk home together. I do this because I want her to know she means the world to me. I want to be one of the first things she sees after a hard day at work – someone who is there for her, consistently and intentionally. When we get home, I surprise her with a delicious meal I’ve cooked and a house free from mess and chaos. I try to create a welcoming sanctuary for my hardworking woman.

It’s a small gesture, but it’s meaningful. It’s the least I can do for someone I love. Commitment isn’t just about showing up in the grand moments. It’s about being present and thoughtful everyday. That’s what a real partnership looks like.

Now, let me address something else: never again tell anyone that your husband is an amazing father simply because he can manage to keep the kids calm at dinner. That’s not an achievement. It’s basic parenting. I was embarrassed for you when I read that. If you want to share this kind of mediocrity, do so with people who thrive on shallow conversations and echo chambers of trivial nonsense. I am not your glorified sounding board, for you to brag shitty parenting antics to. When you elevate something so ordinary, it feels less like you’re celebrating him and more like you’re desperately trying to convince yourself. Worse, perpetuating such a low standard spreads the idea that doing the bare minimum qualifies as exceptional parenting. It doesn’t.

For perspective: when I was a teenager, I could keep four toddlers in check at the dinner table. Does that make me an amazing father in waiting? Of course not. So stop lowering the bar to ground level. Great parenting deserves real praise – not empty accolades for the basics.

You know who is amazing? You. You’re a high school teacher who handles classrooms full of teenagers every week with incredible grace and patience, all the while nurturing your vibrant, lively children at the same time. That takes a special kind of strength and love.

If your husband struggles to manage just four children of his own, he’s falling short in his most fundamental role. Keeping the kids calm at dinner isn’t some grand accomplishment; it’s simply what a father and partner should do. You deserve someone who shares the load with you, someone who supports you with the same devotion and care you give so freely every single day.

And just in case you’re ever tempted to tell me about his other supposed talents – like hanging up clothes without dropping them, changing a diaper without making a mess, or fixing a doorknob without help – please don’t. It will just make him look like a retard who needs a gold star for every basic task. You don’t need to downplay your own resilience and achievements just to elevate mediocrity.

His behaviour towards you, the things he has said to you, the type of arguments you’ve had with him, and how he deals with various situations, tells me he wants all of the benefits of a marriage, without the responsibilities of one.  He treats you like you’re an obstacle to his bachelor’s lifestyle.

A good marriage and a partnership, is backed up by a great friendship. You and Daffodil aren’t friends. You two are roommates with a marriage certificate.

Tahliya said: I feel I have become asexual. I am just not interested in sex anymore, and it has become a chore. I rarely masturbate as well. Is it possible for someone to just become asexual?
-in April 2024

People don’t stop wanting sex unless it’s a medical issue, or they’re in a situation where they have next to no motivation for sex and pleasure. Your husband expects you to beg him for sex, like you really want it and want him. How could you, when he’s such a turn off?!

Allow me to be immodest for a moment.

Amber wants me to fuck her brains out almost every day, and when she doesn’t feel like intercourse, she loves it when I help her masturbate, but more than that, she constantly wants me to hold her. She loves kissing me. She tells me she loves me playfully almost every day. We laugh together, play together, poke fun at each other, and resolve things on the spot if any problems arise. The only issues we have between us, is abuse from her past, that creeps up through her PTSD.

Her libido is based on our relationship dynamics, but more than that, it’s based on how I treat her. In all of the years of my life, in all of the stories I have heard from others, people in intimate relationships want sex with their partners when their partners treat them right. Those that don’t want sex, are when their partners don’t treat them right – don’t speak their love language.

Everything you’ve said: the elephant in the room, how he has learned to speak your love language by taking advantage of your tolerant behaviour, how he is the only one who can gather your kids to the dinner table without them making a fuss, how he is interested in ancient Biblical texts which somehow turns you on so much that your pussy is still drier than the Sahara Desert, screams major coping mechanism.

Who exactly are you trying to convince here? Me? Not a chance. Yourself? Absolutely. You’re clinging so hard to the idea that your marriage is more than it’s ever been, that you’ve resorted to lying’”not just to others, but to yourself. You want so desperately to believe he’s a changed man, even when every sign says otherwise.

It doesn’t matter what he’s told you about being a teacher, a cartoonist, or whatever empty praise he’s thrown your way. His actions – his contradictions, his half-hearted efforts, betray his words every time. You know it. His behaviour screams exactly what he wants: a delicate, compliant “Chinese flower” who serves his needs, strokes his ego, and fulfills his desires without question. To him, it’s about control. He wants you to play the role of the submissive wife – the obedient, eager-to-please woman who fits into his narrow, outdated mold of a traditional, conservative Christian household. But is that really what you want for yourself? Or are you just too afraid to admit that the life you’re defending isn’t even remotely the one your initial naivety and fantasies have made it out to be?

And let me say it again since it clearly didn’t sink in the first time: suggesting you move to Mexico because of better pay and lower living costs is just a cover. It’s a ploy for him to tighten his grip on your life. The idea itself isn’t inherently bad, but motives matter, and he’s always had more than one reason for his decisions.

You see him through rose-tinted glasses – faintly, but still there. I’ve seen him for exactly who he is since 2008, and that’s why I apologized twice after your wedding. Both times, you accepted my apology, even admitting your heart was too shallow to recognize him for what he truly was.

But let’s be real. Back then, you were too naive to listen to anyone, enchanted by his Superman looks and the illusion that a big dick equated to great orgasmic sex. Everyone else praised him as a godsend, but not me. I knew better. And deep down, I think you did too. You just didn’t want to hear it.

Your husband is not a great guy. He’s not even meeting the bare minimum. Anyone who settles for someone like him is operating with the lowest of standards. What’s he good for? Making a lot of money, occasionally helping around the house, and occasionally tending to the kids. He’s your roommate with benefits, Tahliya – no matter how you spin it. The one you occasionally suck off and let fuck you when it suits him. Then celebrate a special day or two, like Valentine’s and your wedding anniversary, so you can post one picture onto social media a couple of times a year, to convince your friends and yourself, that your relationship is still intact. Is that really the love and partnership you imagined for yourself? Or are you just holding onto the fantasy because facing the reality feels too hard?

You are married to your stress and lifestyle. Your husband hasn’t been a main character in your life since the start of 2012. He’s not even a secondary or supporting character. He’s the villain in your story.

He’s a Christian in-name-only. He cherry picks the parts that suit his moods, and discards the rest that impedes his . If he truly is a Christian, prayer would have lead him to the correct path, the moment he decided to wed you. He would uphold the vows he made to you when you two got married, fully and consistently.

…to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until we are parted by death. This is my solemn vow.

For the past decade and a half, in what ways has your husband truly loved and cherished you? How has he supported and nurtured you as a partner? When your dog was running around scared, lost in dementia, and you needed comfort, he chose his own earache over your needs. If he were embodying the kind of love that reflects God’s love – protective, selfless, and steadfast – wouldn’t he be your sword, shield, and your armour in times of hardship, as well as your pillow and blanket in moments of vulnerability? Think about the vows he made to you. Which of those has he genuinely upheld? Because right now, it feels like the only promise he’s sticking to is the ‘until death’ part. And isn’t that painfully hollow, when love is meant to be so much deeper?

So let’s be honest for once, Tahliya…

Your husband fucking sucks shit, and even less than that, he has hurt you endlessly, short of abusing you.

You’re in pain. Therefore, I am in pain.

Since 2009, and infinitely more so in 2012 – I’ve watched the woman I love endure so much grief at the hands of someone who should have been your refuge but instead has been the source of so much heartbreak. This man-child, incapable of growing up or taking responsibility, has repeatedly let you down.

I made a mistake in 2012. I thought that by stepping back, by rejecting you, I was allowing your dreams to flourish without adding more chaos to your life. But instead, chaos found you anyway. Your husband stands at the centre of it, surrounded by the toxicity of others who also exploit your weaknesses: Robin, Jacqueline, and anyone else who shamelessly takes advantage of your boundless generosity.

All I have ever wanted, truly and deeply, is to offer you a sanctuary – a space where your mind can rest, your emotions are nurtured, and your body is cherished. To create a bubble of peace and care for you. To be a loving friend who sees you, values you, and treasures you.

In August, you described your husband as ‘the elephant in the room’. I understand the analogy, but let me offer a different perspective, Tahliya. Your husband is NOT the elephant in the room. He’s an illusion, a stand-in for the fantasy of what you wished your marriage could be. He’s more like an inflatable elephant, sometimes present but often absent, deflated and uninvested. He’s only there, because you allow him to. You’re holding onto the extremely little you have that is your marriage. So it just never occurred to me that he was the elephant in the room. He would have been, if he was your life. He’s only in your life, in-name-only.

Insincerity

Tahliya said:

That’s so cute how Amber is taking a sort of interest in me, or being sensitive to me, and I think that’s very cute. However, [in a goofy voice] what does she think of our relationship? Does she think we’re going to start doing something? Like, it’s so funny. I hear your voice. You’re very giddy-sounding, it’s just like, it’s kind of funny. Umm, but umm, like, I know you guys have an open-ish or an understanding, umm, but what does she, does she think something is going to happen? Because like, I don’t, I don’t really think anything is going to happen, I don’t necessarily want, don’t want anything to happen. You know? It could just be like old pals, just uh, reminiscing and talking about stuff, and I don’t want there to be…. Ummm, anything that would, you know, yeah, you know what I mean?
-in May 2024

You don’t think anything is going to happen? Or, you don’t necessarily want anything to happen? Or, you don’t really want anything to happen?

Which was it?

Let’s set aside your indecisiveness for a moment and just be honest.

Our friendship, by most accounts, was decent. I admit, I could have shown up more often, at least in the way most people expect, but I’ve never measured friendship by calendars or rituals. If I invested in you deeply early on, I trusted the bond would carry through time – that when we needed each other, we’d show up. That was always enough for me.

I don’t do birthdays or empty gestures. I do meaning. That’s why the quinoa you brought me meant so much. It wasn’t about the quinoa – it was about you making time for me. That’s what real friendship looks like. Thoughtfulness, not obligation.

Along the way, we fell out of sync. Though now, in the state of equanimity, perhaps we always were out of sync.

You reshaped history to make it easier to live with yourself – bent the truth until it fit the version of you that you want to believe is real. Calling all those years of tension “innocent” or “just jokes” isn’t clarity – it’s evasion. It spares you the discomfort of accountability. You erased those truths from your version of us – whether out of convenience, self-preservation, or something colder. But what you failed to account for, is that I remember everything. My memory is long, detailed, and cruelly intact.

You became unreliable, not because of memory, but because comfort trumped truth. And every time I tried to match your honesty with mine, you punished me for it. When I was vulnerable, you claimed boundaries. When you were flirtatious, you called it weather. It was never just heat. You knew what you were doing.

You’ve blurred lines so many times I no longer know what you see when you look at me. Protector? Pervert? Brother? Fantasy? You switch depending on the day, and then accuse me of being the inconsistent one.

You sent cleavage photos, asked intimate questions, teased me with your words – then retreated the moment my responses mirrored your tone. This cycle didn’t start yesterday. It’s been your pattern since 2015. Push, pull. Bait, retreat. You want to be adored, sexualized, pursued – but only on your terms, and only if I never admit that I noticed.

What’s worst, is that you asked if I wanted to see a risque photo of you. When I agreed, you sent me a breastfeeding photo showing your swollen areolas and enlarged breast. The photo itself was not sexual, nor explicit. Just precisely engineered to look innocent. You knew exactly what you were doing. It was calculated ambiguity, draped in the disguise of maternal intimacy.

You knew exactly what you were doing. You dangled the word “risqué” like a lure, waited for me to nibble with a hesitant yes, then sent me something that walked the tightrope between provocative and untouchable. Not erotic, not innocent – just enough to stir something, but veiled in a way that made your intentions deniable.

You weaponized ambiguity. You dressed your exhibitionism in maternal camouflage and sent it with a smirk, fully aware that no one could ever accuse you of crossing a line. That is what disgusts me. Not just the image itself, but the calculated performance. The performance of vulnerability. The performance of safety. You didn’t send it to be close. You sent it to be powerful – to hold me in that tension between arousal and guilt, then sit back and pretend it was all in my head.

It wasn’t. I saw it for what it was. You baited the wire and called it care. You draped intention in innocence and called it connection. You keep doing this, and you keep thinking you’re the only one with clean hands. You’re not. Not even close.

Stop with the pretentious act. You’re sexually frustrated, emotionally displaced, and terrified of your own needs. So you dangle intimacy like a carrot, then slap my wrist when I reach. You want control, but not responsibility. You want affection, but not intimacy. You want loyalty, but not truth.

I tolerated it because I thought our bond was rare. Special. That we had history worth salvaging. I thought, maybe, if I held on long enough, you’d see it too. That you’d stop confusing me with Robin. That you’d remember I was never him.

But you didn’t. You kept weaponizing your trauma and expecting me to bend. Eventually, I couldn’t.

What hurt the most wasn’t your August message. It was everything before it – the gaslighting, the projections, the rewriting of who we were. The way you reduced our history to convenient little stories that made you feel righteous and me disposable.

Those three months from March to June 2024? That was the last time I saw a glimpse of you – the real you. And I will cherish those months forever. But after that? You defaulted. Again.

You said you’d fight for me. You didn’t.
I did.

You showed up with empty hands and told me nothing changed. And you were right – you didn’t. But I did. I finally stopped waiting for the woman who kept vanishing behind her own defences.

I didn’t ghost you. I didn’t fade.
I bled effort.
You just watched me bleed.

So I ended it. Fully. Cleanly. Finally.

I called my nephew that very night and transferred all of her website files, admin privileges, domain access, and social media logins to him. Then I wrote her a short letter – formal, brief, and final. I told her not to contact me again, and I wished her farewell.

She didn’t listen.

A month later, a letter arrived in my mailbox – from her.

Not long after, in October, she appeared at my door unannounced. She cried for nearly twenty minutes straight, unable to speak through the tears. When we hugged goodbye, she clung to me like someone holding onto the last thread of something that was already unravelling.

Even then, she wasn’t my friend again. She was just someone from my past – someone I was willing to give a final chance to fight for us. Of course, a part of me wanted to hold her longer – to let that moment pretend it could rewrite history, but while my heart can be soft, the years of gaslighting, disparaging remarks, and deflective bullshit held me back.

By November, the five-page blog I had crafted for her eyes only, after spending nearly 300 hours and many revisions later, for her, she kept making excuses to push it further, to read it later. It started off with, “I’ll read it over the weekend”, to “I’ll read it in about two weeks after my work is done”, to not handling a miscommunication between us until two more weeks after that in mid December, which by then, I already unpublished the blog, and created a single-page letter detailing my disappointment in her lack of ‘fight’, and told her the fourteen terms of engagement, if she so wishes to address the issues I have with her.

Here is the letter:

Dear Tahliya…

At this moment, it is 2024, November the 27th at 1:54am. I am listening to “Purple Rain” by Prince.

Earlier, I recounted a scene from a modern Three Kingdoms film called Battle of Red Cliffs. Lord Cao Cao was sending a massive 220,000-strong army to lay siege to Eastern Wu. The combined forces of Lord Sun Quan and Lord Liu Bei, with their 50,000-small army was preparing for battle at their encampment. As they stood in position, in formation, they were urged by their general to write their final letters to loved ones, hurriedly penning what might be their last words. After they finished, one by one, they either tore up their letters or cast them into the wind, their emotions spilling forth – some weeping openly, others struggling to remain stoic. The general himself tore his letter in two and let it drift into the wind, his eyes looking forward, glistening with unspoken pain.

It was a ritual of release, a way for them to say what they had long carried in their hearts before marching toward inevitable death. In a way, that’s what this blog has been for me – a battlefield of unspoken words, a desperate attempt to leave nothing unsaid. It has been my act of emotional intercourse with you, laying bare my inner self, in hopes of forging a connection that transcends the barriers of distance, time, and understanding.

When you sent me that WhatsApp message about two weeks ago that you needed to wait until after your report cards are done, the blog was already completed. Then a few days later, you told me you will read this blog after December 4th after your current course load is completed. So I took the chance to revise it some more. As of a few hours ago, I had what I believed to be the most perfect version: five entries, painstakingly shaped and reshaped. It started as four entries completed two weeks ago, then five, then six, then one, then four again, back to five, six, then five once more, and finally, none.

The question that stirred me was, “What’s the point?” I understand what I desire and have so much to express and share with you, yet deep down, I know it will make little to no difference. You will remain the same, seeing me through an unchanging lens, no matter the truths I reveal or how sincerely I strive to connect with you. Your vices hold you down, your influences – too many.

This process has drained me in ways I can hardly describe. Amber, watching quietly from the sidelines, bore witness to how deeply this consumed me. She saw the anxiety and stress bleed into every corner of my life. Before she went to bed earlier this evening, she told me calmly but firmly, how angry she is with you. Angry for the emotions you’ve stirred in me since 2018, and especially for how much of my time, energy, and effort I’ve poured into this blog for you. And that made me stop and think.

I’ve invested nearly 300 hours into crafting this blog, revising it over 500 times, agonizing over every word, every nuance, every tone, relentlessly striving for perfection. It has been a gruelling battle within myself, a clash of wits and emotions, like an endless game of chess played in my mind. Each move was deliberate, each word chosen to convey my feelings with clarity and depth. In the end, what emerged was, to me, a masterpiece – a creation born from turmoil and relentless effort.

Alas, I decided not to let you read the blog, as I wonder what ailments of time would obstruct you from truly reconnecting with me. After you got married, from 2009 to 2011, you visited me about three to four times a year. In 2012, you visited me just under fifty times. Then in 2013 to 2014, you visited me twice. From 2015 to 2022, you visited me once per year to one and a half years. You didn’t see me at all in 2023.

From March to June 2024, your tone with me shifted dramatically. It was as though you reverted to how you were with me back in 2012. When you reached out to me in March, I truly believed we had a fresh start – a relationship reset. I thought whatever negativity had built up between us since 2018 had finally been wiped clean. When you told me in March how much you were looking forward to seeing me again in August, even asking if we could meet two or three times or more, I felt genuinely excited. Despite lingering doubts, I let myself be open with you, though I still held back on a few things.

Unfortunately, my doubts proved valid. By the start of July, you slipped back into the toxic patterns you had adopted from 2014 onward, which grew stronger by 2018 and persisted right up until the start of 2024. To be clear, you weren’t always toxic. But you seemed to reserve that side of yourself for the moments when I tried to share brief yet deeply significant parts of our shared history – moments that mattered to me. In short, you want to cherry pick who I am to you, keeping the parts that satisfy your ego, discarding the parts that challenges your emotions.

It felt like watching two different sides of you emerge, like Dr. Jekyll and Miss Hyde – vastly different personalities, each triggered by its own set of circumstances. And as the years pass, this duality seems to be growing more pronounced, squashing the part of you I adore.

You set out to marry a loving partner who shared the same faith, knowing he would stand by you unconditionally, offering support without hesitation. Yet, what you ended up with is someone who enjoys the privileges of marriage while neglecting its responsibilities. Even worse, you find yourself making excuses for him.

The reality is that you’re living as a married single mother, caught in a web of denial – and what hurts most is that you choose to carry that denial even with me, someone who sees and cares for you deeply.

You told me we share a special relationship through an unique bond, one defined by a sense of freedom and the ability to be our true, genuine selves with one another. I wish that were true. The reality is, only you have been able to freely express yourself fully with me. I cannot say the same for myself, and I haven’t felt that freedom since 2013. I walk on eggshells around you, and as I admitted back in June, I feel a deep insecurity whenever I try to share my inner thoughts. The blog touches on this, among other truths, in greater detail.

My understanding of our ‘special relationship’ differs from the one you hold now. To me, it’s rooted in a connection long buried – one that hasn’t seen daylight since 2013. From March to June of this year, I was able to see a fleeting glimpse of the light you once brightly shone.

My conversations with you are unlike those I have with anyone else, but I approach every person uniquely, shaped by their nature and our connection. With you, I try to hold space for your struggles, your energy, your scarce time, and what I sense might be undiagnosed high-functioning PTSD. Perhaps no one has ever said this to you before – few would dare to question your moods, your defensiveness, or why you push yourself so relentlessly, even when you lack the support you so clearly need.

You see yourself as ‘the busiest person you know’ and I understand why it feels that way. Alas, you would be about 7th on my list of the busiest people I know. The difference is that none of them have met me with the same intensity of frustration, negativity, or unspoken turmoil that I’ve felt from you. That’s why I spoke up in August, though far more gently than I would have with anyone else. Disappointingly, though not unexpectedly, you responded exactly as I feared you would: with dismissal, condescension, and a sharpness that left me feeling unseen.

The life you’ve fiercely pursued over the past decade – the people, the self-imposed routines, has reshaped you into someone so entangled in chaos. Even when you strive, with great effort, to organize your world into neat ideals and clear-cut relationships, there’s still a deep, discordant turbulence in you. You are the only person in my life who brings me this chaos. And yet, paradoxically, I ache to see you, to hold you so tightly that you might feel the depth of the affection I still believe you deserve. But in the same breath, you make me question whether I want you in my life at all. It’s a painful contradiction. How do I look at the story of ‘us’ and let it all go? That’s why, even now, I’m offering you a little more of my life, as fractured as it feels.

You carry more weight than most people around you could fathom, shouldering endless responsibilities under a relentless cloud of stress. But adulthood, as I’ve come to see it, is about sacrifice – conscious choices to nurture some things while letting others go. You told me you have only two weeks of freedom before the demands of life pull you back into months of absence.

This is why I struggle to believe that you see us as special. You hold on, not to me, but to a sentimental memory – one of a time when we could speak openly, without walls or second-guessing. I’ve always felt that what we shared was rare, extraordinary even, but you will never truly know that because you’ve been misreading me for a decade. Since 2014, you’ve formed conclusions about my character and who I am that are so far from the truth. I wish you were still the curious, unguarded woman you used to be, from 2003 to 2009, again in 2012 to 2013, and briefly, from March to June of this year.

There’s a misquoted line often attributed to Walt Whitman: ‘Be curious, not judgmental.’ What it truly means is to pause, to wonder, listen, allow yourself to not have all the answers. Instead, judgment rushes into your psyche, like you put up shields because this is how you’ve protected yourself for so long. You imagine the worst, draw hasty conclusions, and let that spark of curiosity die.

Earlier this year, I had hoped to engage in a lighthearted Q&A with you, with the intention of rediscovering you’”of understanding the aspects of you that I may have overlooked or failed to fully appreciate. My aim was to show you, step by step, that I truly want to know and acknowledge every part of who you are, and perhaps even reignite the curiosity and openness you once shared.

But it seems the idea made you uncomfortable, perhaps because it touched on things you weren’t ready or willing to confront. If that’s the case, I can’t help but question how you view our relationship as one where we can freely express ourselves without judgment. It feels like the moment my presence stirs discomfort in you, prompting reflection on what you see as a blemish from your past, you pass judgment on me.

What you see as a ‘taint’, I still hold dear, because it was in those moments you were most free with me, and I could be open with you too, even if I still shielded parts of myself to protect you.

I am someone you hold close when your mood is light, and someone you cast aside when the darkness comes. Yet, no matter what I feel, you remain special to me, and I always strive to never hurt you, never to speak ill of you. No matter the circumstances, I will never dismiss you.

That is why, when you came to see me unannounced on October 20th, I went from feeling mostly indifferent from the end of August to that day, to suddenly yearning for you again. When I saw your tears, brought on by your PMS, and you asked for a hug, and then held me even tighter, I realized just how deeply I could be something meaningful in your life. If only you would let down all your walls, allow yourself to be free with me, and grant me the same freedom to be fully myself with you.

You were once a truly beautiful woman – inside and out. That’s what I meant in August when I said I loved you. It wasn’t a declaration of desire, a crude craving to get you into bed like those who have twisted the concept of love to serve themselves – Robin, Jac, Jules, even your husband. When I said ‘I love you,’ I was reaching for you as you slipped further into chaos, grief, and turmoil. It was a lifeline I cast into the heart of the hurricane, a desperate attempt to reach you before the storm swallowed you completely. I was clinging to the fragile pieces of you I still had left, afraid to lose you forever. I said it to remind you that you are worthy of love, worthy of friendship, and worthy of being cherished – the same way Fong once loved you, perhaps even more profoundly from me, and not to be discarded or used behind the facade of love by those you have given your trust, but broken them so whimsically. Alas, you misunderstood my affection and my words, as though love could only mean the kind of love you’ve known since 2009: transactional, shallow, reduced to sex – the kind you’re used to – one way and self-serving.

And that broke me. You’re surrounded by toxicity, by people who only take, and it blinds you to the connection I’ve always felt we shared.

Throughout our entire relationship, I have protected you, sacrificing my own desires, my own feelings – trying my best to be a supporting character, rather than a main character. Yet, of course, you would never see, nor will ever have known that, as you’ve chosen to judge my words through the lens of people like Robin and your husband, rather than recognize me for who I truly am – Leeman Cheng. Have you never considered, that you’ve had me for half of your life? Longer than all of your romantic relationships, and most of your relationships with your friends. Yet, you still saw me, and reacted to me on the same wavelength as you do with Robin and to some degree, with your husband. I am nothing like them, and quite the opposite.

My affection for you has never been driven by lust or a desire for physical intimacy. It stems from the deep connection of our friendship and the profound yearning I’ve felt for you – a longing that kept you in my thoughts daily from September 2023 to August 2024. Knowing the emotional and physical pain you’ve endured in your marriage breaks my heart. That pain has awakened in me a desire to show you your true worth – that you are far more than a mere object for an indifferent husband or a fleeting fantasy for shallow companions.

You’ve expressed feeling asexual, shaped by the way your husband has made you feel – less than a friend, barely a wife, and someone without a safe space to confide. But you deserve so much more. You deserve to be treasured for all that you are through every high and low, and not for what others can take from you. True love should only ever be expressed with respect for the bond shared and a deep reverence for the person cherished.

What I feel for you goes beyond mere desire. It is a sincere longing born of friendship – a desire to nurture and fulfill your emotional and physical needs in a way that transcends the superficial. It is the hope of evolving our connection into something deeply enlightened, where both heart and soul find peace and joy, even in the little bubble we mutually share.

To me, you can be extraordinary. If only you had truly let yourself connect with me in August, with the same clarity and openness you carried from March to June, you might have seen it too. That is why, when you said what you did at the end of August, you truly and absolutely broke my heart. I have not felt a literal physically broken heart for a very long time – well, since 2014 and prior to that, with Pepper in 2010.

Sentiment may guide your intentions, but reality ultimately shapes your choices. Spreading yourself too thin only compounds stress and diminishes the meaning of what you aim to accomplish. Since 2009, I’ve learned the value of stepping away from what drains me or feels insincere. That choice has been liberating, allowing me to invest wholly in the people and things that truly matter. Sometimes, burning bridges isn’t an act of destruction. It’s a path to renewal. Insincerity erodes the foundation of any meaningful connection, and if I cannot hold a place of priority in your life, perhaps this has been a sign all along, since 2015, that it’s time to let this relationship die and just let me go.

Please don’t misunderstand me: there’s no anger or resentment in this realization. This is not a condemnation, but an acknowledgement of life’s realities. If this is what must be, then so be it. It’s just life.

However, I am not unreasonable. I will permit you to prove that I am important in your life, and not just a token of sentiment, a copper trophy of sorts, you want to keep on your shelf, hidden behind layers of toxicity. So, in this regard, let’s test this special relationship, you believe we have, as defined by what we really had.

The following are my terms of engagement.

1. WhatsApp me when you’ve finished reading this private letter, but respond to everything I’ve said here ONLY in person. If you have something to say to me, say it in front of me. Depending on how things go, I may reveal my five page private blog with you.
2. Schedule a time to meet me as soon as possible in person, alone. Set aside at least 4 hours for us. More, if possible. If it was up to me, I would have you for at least a weekend – a month even.
3. Please come after a shower. This is utterly important. Don’t eat anything spicy before you see me. If you’re hungry, I will take care of you.
4. Only come when you’re past or at the tail end of your period. I don’t want to have to deal with your ‘moods’ and your triggers.
5. Stop hiding behind empty walls and superficial labels, clinging to comfortable yet hollow forms of connection. Not only are they draining, but they are ultimately futile. The defenses you put up are meant for casual acquaintances, not for someone you claim to have a meaningful bond with. Do we share a connection in name alone, where I am merely a convenient sounding board? You can pretend and withhold the truth with others if you wish, but if you truly believe our relationship holds any significance, you must let go of your anger and stop masking your true feelings with the facade of “everything is fine” whenever it suits you. You must be authentic with me. Otherwise, what’s the point?
6. Acknowledge the truth of your marital trauma. Yes, it exists and if other people don’t or choose not to see it, then that’s their chosen ignorance, but I see it and it’s clear as fucking day. You cannot be authentic, if you’re in denial.
7. If there’s something you want or need, don’t hint at it. Ask for it. Of course, this doesn’t mean I will automatically agree to your demands.
8. Spare me the condescending tone. Spare me the shallow ‘I get what you’re saying’ line. These are the things you do and say, to people whom you have shallow connections with. So if you do it, I will immediately close myself off from you.
9. Reflect on the entirety of our relationship, my character, and the dynamic that shaped its very foundation. If my words cut deep, consider why they resonate that way, rather than presuming they were meant to wound. Your words and actions reveal the weight of the trauma you carry. In shielding yourself, you’ve often blurred the lines between who I truly am and who you perceive me to be, conflating me with others who share similar patterns in your life.
10. Prepare your questions, and ask everything you’ve ever wanted to know – even ones unrelated to us. This is where we will build the framework for the foundation of an evolved relationship.
11. Be ready to confront all of me, with honesty and openness. I’ve walked on eggshells around you since 2015, and it has been nothing short of stifling. I’ve had my fill of shallow connections and hollow encounters.
12. You will be thoroughly challenged. I will ignite a fusion bomb at the very core of your trauma, shattering the hardened layers of toxicity and pretense, to reveal your light once more.
13. Step into our moment in a softer, yet enduring graceful side of yourself. Something delicate yet inviting, ready to bask in the warmth and tenderness of true self-expression. Think about what you normally wear that feels most like you, then shed one or two layers, allowing yourself to become more emotionally open. Let your essence flow more freely, embracing your softness and femininity – a dress, a skirt, painted nails, heels, your favourite earrings, a subtle touch of makeup, and a fragrance that wraps around you like a soft, soothing embrace. This is about surrendering to your vulnerability, letting every detail gently reveal who you are, and allow yourself to willingly accept the adoration I feel you still deserve. And if you’re not able to come as such, perhaps the dresses I got for you will help you tap into that deeper, more tender version of yourself. I bought four dresses specifically for you, that I wanted you to wear, whenever you come see me. I bought them in April and May, especially after you told me you would willingly wear them along with some make-up and high heels. Don’t be afraid of being vulnerable around me, especially when I desire to see you differently than what you’re normally accustomed to.
14. And lastly, I’m not waiting until after April, or your kid’s high school graduation, or when you put your husband into a retirement home to meet with you. Either learn to let our relationship end immaculately, or prove to me we have a relationship worth your time.

Show me authenticity, and I’ll give you a part of my life.

If you disagree with anything I’ve said, feel free to send me a simple message on WhatsApp stating that you’d rather not engage with this, and I’ll respect that. Keep it brief. I don’t need lengthy explanations when a couple of lines will suffice.

-Leeman

She read the latter, and agreed to them. Claimed she understood what was required of her.

And on January 23rd, 2025 – we met.

She came dressed plainly, checked off five of the easiest terms, and then hinted at intimacy the way someone dangles bait. She said she might have a cold, “In case we were going to do something,” she added.

I replied, “We’re not.”

She looked away, like she was busy checking her phone, and remarked, “That’s good then.”

Then, like a feather tossed into the wind, she casually mentioned her vibrator broke. I told her I had gotten her one. She glanced sideways at it. “Oh really?” she said, with all the interest of someone noticing a stray receipt on the table.

Nothing happened. Nothing real. She repeated the same thing over and over again, “I’m in survival mode.” Eventually, I made her lunch. She ate, then long long after, she left.

A couple of days later, after a back and forth on WhatsApp, she messaged: “I was there for four hours, and nothing changed.”

As if change was something owed. As if I hadn’t already given everything. What happened to she will fight for us? Which part of our special relationship, through an unique bond, as so special and unique that she came unprepared?

Then came the last few of our WhatsApp exchanges on February 2nd, 2025.

After I challenged her one more time, for a speckle of sincerity, she came back and told me she would rather maintain a sounding-board type of relationship between us. While I gave her that option, it was a test – a last test for seeing what she meant by “fighting for us”. She failed hard. She chose Option #1: a stripped-down dynamic – me as an emotionless soundboard. She said it was all she could give.

However, it wasn’t about what she could give. It was about what she was willing to give, and that distinction matters.

She said she saw the care I still gave her, even through the fire. She said she didn’t deserve it. And I agreed.

Because what I needed was for her to fight. What I got was four hours and a shrug.

She promised, back in her letter from September, that she would fight for us, but when it came time to swing, she just stood there, watching. I did not respond to her last message…

Leeman said: You say this is about what you can give, but in reality, it is about what you are willing to give. That distinction matters. If you believe #1 is for the best, I will respect that – but own it for what it is: a choice, not a limitation. Adjusting expectations is not one-sided. It means you will also need to adjust yours. My investment in this relationship will reflect the level of effort you have decided to put in. If that is truly what you want, then we will leave it at that.

Tahliya said: I didn’t say just your expectations laaaaa. Me too. And yes, I think this is gonna be that… #1

I didn’t bother responding.

So after 46 days of silence between us, on March 20th, 2025 – I ended it completely – silently, no drama, no final message. No need.

I blocked her. Deleted her. Removed my name from her sites. I had maintained those websites for over a decade – not for profit, but out of love and belief in her potential.

That love – however loyal, however patient – is now extinct.

This was the final entry.
The final offering.
The end of the ledger.

There is no more story.
Only this: I lived it. I endured it. I outgrew it.
And she will never get to rewrite it.