I am someone who is strong, proud and stubborn.

     When I was eight years old, a teacher I hated once asked me if I knew the meaning of the word "ego". I said no. 

     'Look it up,' he told me, 'you have a big one.'

     I pride myself on being someone who does not break, does not crumble, not even under intense pressure. Like a diamond, someone once said.

     I am pessimistic. If I say something, it will not come true. But if I believe with all my heart that it will not happen, that it is impossible, it happens. I have pondered over that theory for many lengths of time.

    The I-love-you's have become something mundane, almost like an insult. That phrase is used every night, every morning, every day. Maybe the reason why it's so unbearable for me is because it signals departure. He sends 'I love you' after 'I have to go'; after 'Goodnight, go to sleep'; after 'I need to do my work'-almost as if to make up for all the times he's left me.

     I told him I needed a break. This was after we'd fought (yet again). He asked me if I would only be satisfied if he begged me to stay (yet again). I insisted that I needed a break. A part of me died when he didn't call to object or console me, but another more honest part of me already knew he wouldn't. I'd known it since the moment he'd said, 'I don't know what's wrong. You used to be able to calm me down when I'm mad.' I am not going to lie: tears found their way down my face as I sat staring at that message for half an hour.

     It hasn't even been 12 hours since I asked for a break and I have already called him. He tells me he is in the middle of studying, and walks out to call me back as he leaves his class. I ask him if he's missed me at all today, tell him that I know he hasn't.  I hold my breath waiting to hear his answer. He admits that he hasn't, not really, 'I've been too busy today'. I force myself to laugh together with him, and it sounds real. I realise that this is exactly what I've sounded like when I laugh with him. I ask him if he still loves me, and he says, 'Of course'. There is no hesitation.

     There is a pain in my chest when I think of him. It actually physically hurts. I don't know how to describe this, but I feel like there is a dull, aching thudding in my heart. It hurts me to have my heart beating. 

     I am a strong person. I am a masochistic person. I inflict pain on myself because in a way, I enjoy it. I play with fire.  He is my fire. I didn't think I'd get hurt, not this way, not this much. And still some part of me can't wait for him or me to end it, can't wait for the crushing  pain and the overwhelming loneliness to come. Can't wait for the depression to sink in full force. The end is near. 

     In the moment it will hurt. In the moment I will always regret it. But it is before and after the moment that I love most. The bittersweet satisfaction of a well-planned execution. 

     But is not suicide an execution of oneself as well?