Dear future husband, I know the internet has always kept you in a goody-goody bubble of illusion, telling you that every letter beginning with a “Dear future husband” is one of the cutesy desires cobbled together with hearts and flowers. Tarry a little, there. You’ll be horrifically disappointed in that case. Sorry, but no sorry. Do you have a girlfriend at this moment? If yes, do you love her? If no, did you ever have one? How did the two of you break up? Did she leave you? Did you? Why? No, don’t give me that it-didn’t-work-out crap. That’s a ridiculous sham people cajole their hearts with. Did you break up because she had trust issues, lied to you, cheated on you, stabbed you in the back, or worse, just disappeared without a reason? Well then, pat your back, for you survived it well, and are here, reading my rants. But – But if you left her because she doted on you ‘way too much’, messaged you ‘How are you?’, ‘Had lunch?’, or ‘When are we meeting ?’ all the time, bugged you with hopelessly maudlin chatter at three in the night, or because you ‘needed space’ (what?); or if you left her because — after all the dreams and infinite hopes you had given her in your night long romantic phone calls, telling her that she is your ‘Princess’ and there is no one you can love more than her — you simply lost interest in her as someone else caught your fancy, or because your mother, father, sister, brother, friend, or neighbour’s auntie’s cousin’s daughter told you to, you are being warned, abandon the thought of having me. Ever. Do you know why? Because I have gone through every single thing you just read. I have been crowned a Princess, ‘the most special girl in the world’, and heaven knows what not, and I, like a hopeless moth, fluttered nearer and nearer the flame, only to be charred and scalded to the core. And do you know why? Because I am stupid. I am not practical or rational or sagacious or pragmatic or cautious or anything when it comes to the matters of the heart. And that’s exactly why I have had my heart scathed over and over again, till it was no more than a mass of flesh pumping blood. That’s exactly why I have shut it in a junk box, cloistered it behind a façade of apathy, and thrown the key away. There’s permafrost on my heart that, perhaps, no warmth can ever thaw. I have long forgotten how to love and am immune to feeling. In short, I am scarcely anything you fancy. If you still see some hope in me, hello; otherwise, bae, look for the other mistress at the next crossroad, for, trust me, I am done. Perhaps,
Your future wife.