Anyone who tells you they know why is either a liar or betraying a massive confidence - which, actually, none of the people who've been told would do. There aren't many. I can tell you nobody is ever, ever going to work it out or guess it right if they haven't been told. But it was Karl who called an end to it, because of reasons too fraught and awful for anyone to imagine. The last three weeks have been so dreadful, and so melodramatic, I could easily become a slightly improbable Movie of the Week. It's going to take me a long time to get back on my feet again. What I can tell you is that Tom and I still love each other, to a level that's scared the hell out of both of us. Perhaps that's a good way to go out, with no bitterness, just a profound melancholy. And one day we'll get to a point where we can be glad of the things we had, the chances we got. Right now, I just miss him so much it's like an open wound.
We do have one more night. Karl agreed I can still go up for the Fetish Ball in August, which leaves us in a weird hanging place. We're done but we're not really done; we have one more celebration and one more goodbye. We changed each other profoundly, and that will persist after everything else is gone.
This is not the kind of pain I enjoy.