“Goodbye. Psychopaths like us are incapable of feeling such drama.” – It was written in your note.

But still, I expected you to be more persistent. For some reason, I thought you would be more confident, more resolute.

I sat for eight days on a bench at the old train station. As soon as I heard a wagon approaching, I closed my eyes and tried to catch your scent. And so it went for eight days, and nothing even close, not a single note. How strange. It turns out you have such a special scent.

For half a year now, my office has been right next to the old train station. I think I’ve grown to love the iron screech of the rails. Over my morning coffee, I can already hear “yours, as always, without sugar.”

Only once during this time did I catch a certain scent. You must have decided to get on the train after all, but changed your mind at the last moment and got off. Most likely that’s what happened. The fifth car was saturated with your smell.

Sometimes I get angry with you. Sometimes to the point of rage.

I recently injured my hand, cutting it deeply. Now I know that the feeling of pain is connected only with you. I hurt myself several times on purpose to remember your features.

No, I didn’t forget them, but when it hurts, they are more vivid. And then I can feel like I’m angry at a real person.

In November, I was in the botanical garden. That’s where you read me extracts from the encyclopedia. We came across a section about how psychopaths are incapable of feeling anything. They feel no fear, no remorse, and are incapable of love or empathy.

You laughed a lot then. You said that psychopaths probably have a very boring life. You thought that feelings were the most amazing games.

I lost to you.

And in the morning you ran away. And I found a note.

It’s strange that I didn’t guess when you were laughing so hard.

And I burned that encyclopedia.

I understand that I should only be angry at you, not at the book, but I still convince myself that you are more persistent, more determined. That you will get on that train.

I write to you every day.

I apologize if my notes are rude, it’s just because I wanted to share everything with you, and because I’m still a little angry.

I apologize for not sending them to you. I tried several times, but both times I forgot to put stamps on the envelopes.

I recently chatted with the train station attendant. We’ve become friends over the past three years.

He suggested that you might never get on this train.

I laughed.

It’s wonderful, you know, to leave the old station without any baggage.