It's done. I've just deleted the last (and first) of SMSes from him on my handphone. There's no trace of him now on my main means of communication (besides MSN - blocked him ages ago).

I'd saved those few messages as they seemed rather landmark ones to me:

- The first he sent me just a couple of hours after we got together, just a few hours before he flew off to Sydney to begin that first tumultuous year of long-distance (2003)

- When he called me "deliciously evil" in response to my revealing a piece of info to him which I shall not reveal here (2003)

- Telling me I could be F14 (we were going to watch a play on Valentine's Day and by some coincidence, one of our two seats was F14) (2004)

- No particular reason, just to tell me how much he loved me (2004)

- Reminding me that it was one year ago that we first made love and I first told him I loved him (2004)

- The day he passed his driving (2007)

- Telling me he was waiting for me by the pool at my place (2007, on the night I realised he wanted to break up)

- Informing me he was on his way to meet me to watch The Pickle King (17 Feb 2007, the night we officially broke up)

I've even deleted that last photo of us from the in-phone album, the one that looked so good as wallpaper on my phone (the whole red-and-black thing worked really well on my Chocolate...and we both looked good in it, even though we were both sloshed at the time the photo was taken).

My left forefinger has finally stopped feeling empty without a ring. Even the slight notch is gone. So quickly gone.

Maybe NOW I can start living and thinking like a single chick. Maybe...

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I realised that getting over him was the easy part. Getting over a guy once you realise how bastardly he was is easy.

Getting over the scars he left behind is a great deal harder.

Just a couple of nights ago, I suddenly sent a desperate SMS to a friend in the midst of what felt like panic. I spent the rest of the night (OK, morning) sputtering about my brand new baggage, as if I didn't already have enough without all this happening. While I felt much comforted by the end of the night (thanks, W!), those thoughts still remain - not just as thoughts, but as integral parts of my consciousness.

I realised I wasn't crying over him anymore. I was crying about my loss, the unwanted new layers in my defences, and - most of all -the fear. I was crying for broken dreams, the complete shift in what I thought my life would be.

How one person can fuck you over and run away like fucking Georgy Porgy.

He wasn't the most bastardly, nor the most psycho, nor even the most inconsiderate. But his will be the biggest scar.