Mémoire || Antoine Griezmann

THE LOVING

❝ he says

i am sorry i am not an easy person to want

i look at him surprised

who said i wanted easy

i don't crave easy

i crave goddamn difficult ❞

–  page 56, "milk and honey", rupi kaur

~~~~~

Salut, Antoine. I hope you're doing well in Madrid.

I ended the last entry with so much vengeance to myself, huh? I'm sorry. I just had to.

You'd probably scold me for being too hard on myself if you were right next to me. But the thing is... You aren't here next to me. And nobody's holding me back from lashing out on myself.

And the words I've written previously made it seem like you're dead or something. God, imagine what it'd be like if you were physically... gone! The thought alone is sending shivers down my spine. I mean, not being able to emotionally connect with you is bad enough, let alone not being able to watch that soft lips of yours succumb into a million-dollar smile.

I can already hear your voice gagging at the cliché sayings inside my head. Ever so childish, Antoine. Why don't you go and comb your mustache? You've always thought it makes you look manlier.  

But, hey, I promised to start becoming a much more positive person on this entry. You'd want me to do that, right? So here I am – hopefully going to fulfill that request of yours. Let's just hope it's not going to end in futility.

Where do I even start?

I don't feel like starting from the very beginning because, truthfully, our first encounter wasn't exactly that pleasing. Not for me at least.

If you think falling face first on the pavement and dropping hot tea all over my favorite sweater is something amusing to witness, I think it's safe to say that you – Antoine fucking Griezmann – are the epitome of cruelty. Might as well call yourself Satan and light your humble abode on fire. 

I mean, who knew footballers are loved by so many? I was just trying to enjoy my last day vacationing in Madrid until one of the many men surrounding your dumbass car decided to knock me over harshly. Who did he think he is? John Cena?

But I guess we both should give him credit for prompting your famous ass to walk towards my direction and lend me a hand. Well, I guess we should also give your mama credit for raising such a true gentleman... Unlike that paparazzi's of course!

Okay, no, maybe that paparazzi's mother is not that bad. Maybe there's just a fault in her son's personality. Sorry for accusing you, ma'am.

Crap. I'm talking nonsense now. Sorry, Antoine. I was supposed to be talking about our journey and NOT about someone who gave birth to a stranger who made me fall embarrassingly in front of you.

But look at the bright side! My linguistic teacher, Mrs. Schmidt, would definitely be proud of me. I actually managed to use an anecdote to begin this diary entry! I hope you're proud of me too, mon chèr.

Anyway...

Even when we started dating each other, I still find it odd how you would constantly feel insecure about yourself. You kept on telling me that you're not an easy person to deal with due to the unnecessary attention you've been gaining throughout these past few years.

You told me I should essentially go big or go home. You told me I should either be dating someone as big as Cristiano Ronaldo or someone who doesn't play football at all. You naively told me that I shouldn't be going for someone who's positioned in between that spectrum.

That someone – by your definition – being you.

I remember when you innocently declared the notion like it was yesterday. We were cuddled up in that ratty couch of mine, the one we'd sought refuge in during movie nights, when you suddenly kissed my temple with a constipated look on your face. You still looked handsome though. Not to worry.

"I don't deserve you," you said in that French accent of yours. God, the amount of self-control it took to not smack you at the back of your head was honestly immense! Not to mention the fact that you decided to rant about how insufficient you were as a lover not long after. Honestly, how daft could one be?

I love you Antoine, don't get me wrong, but you could be so goddamn stupid at times.

You were so fucking stupid for denoting the fact that Cristiano would make a much better boyfriend than you ever could, mainly because his popular image would somehow make it up for the stalkers constantly chasing me. You stupidly implied the fact that your 'mediocre' self – which you believed has nothing compared to the oh-so-great Cristiano – wouldn't make it up for the harsh media attention being thrown towards my direction on a daily basis. You, in other words, tried to indirectly tell me that I should break up with you in search of a wealthier and more renowned football player.

Antoine, bébé, I love you for you... Neither for your popularity nor your wealth.

I love you for your caring nature, the one shown brightly whenever you'd barge into our apartment with Chinese takeout after we both had a long day at work. I'd constantly complain about how inimical my co-workers were and you'd solicitously listen to me as if you hadn't run around a huge-ass football field throughout the entire day.

I love you for your humor, the same essence that would radiate off your body whenever you decided to play an overrated pop song on your iPhone while prancing around our living room like a hyena on steroids. Or even during those times where you'd send me funny selfies throughout Snapchat whenever I was bored at work (causing me to giggle like a madman on loose and my co-workers to instantly give me their infamous death glares).

I love you for being honest with me. You've always told me about the things I should be aware of whenever you flew out of the country with your team. You told me about that one time where a girl drunkenly mistook you as her boyfriend in a club, resulting in you getting drunkenly kissed on the lips.

Speaking of which, I love you for your tender touches and heavenly kisses. I love how you'd hold me in your arms like a fragile piece of artwork. I love how you'd place kisses as soft as feathers on parts of my body that made me feel insecure. You'd kiss away all the timidities possessed by my stretch marks and acne blemishes, and I'm honestly so grateful for that. I'm honestly grateful for your existence in my life.

You know how they say love is overrated? It certainly doesn't feel like it when I'm with you.

I know it's been 3 months since the whole accident took place, but I still couldn't find the courage to face the rancorous reality in front of me. I'm a coward, I gotta admit that, but how could one not crumble when her whole life has been taken away from her?

I'm perfectly aware of that one time where I told you about my willingness of putting up with the obstacles getting in the way of our relationship... But should it really be this hard?

I still love you though, and you'll always be in my mind.

Sending you an abundance of love from Dortmund,
Mia.