[Editor's note: We asked for open letters and we like our writers authentic. This is what came. It's a real and brutal facet of reality, and it's far from entertaining, but ManArchy Mag never meant to be shy.]

To the boy with the pretty mouth,

2010 was the happiest year of my life.

I thought you were perfect. You told me I was perfect. You had the prettiest mouth I had ever seen. You told me I was beautiful. I had butterflies. You told me you didn’t know how you had gotten so lucky. I lived on a cloud. You sent me pictures of hearts and kittens. You were like heroin to me. You told me you wanted to hold me until we were stuck together. I only wanted you. You told me you couldn’t believe you had ever dated anyone else.

Sociopaths are very charming.

I told you I was scared. I told you about my heartbreaks. I told you I was two years from thirty, a ticking clock. I told you to leave me alone if you weren’t serious. I asked you not to make a fool of me. And you told me I was it. I was your heart. I was your world. I was your life. We became inseparable. There was never enough time to be naked. We became best friends. We built forts in the living room like children. We became the perfect couple. We were grossly in love.

Sociopaths are incredible liars.

“I love you so much, my heart feels like it will burst whenever I see you.”
“I have never. Ever. Felt so close to anyone in my life. You are everything to me.”
“You are perfect! Being with you is unlike anything I could ever hope for. I want you all the time, in every single way.”
“You really are my world. I love you so much. I can’t wait to just be near you again.”
“You are like nothing I’ve ever experienced and I couldn’t be happier.”
A handful of hundreds of texts of the same. Not just at the beginning of our relationship, but two years’ worth. Do you think it’s creepy that I still have those? They’re on my old BlackBerry. Do you want to know what I think is creepy? While you were saying these things to me every day, you were also fucking other people.

Sociopaths are promiscuous, shallow, and incapable of long-term relationships.

It might be different if this was a story about a girl and a boy who fell in love and over time that love faded and the boy fell in love with someone else. There’s a logical turn of events in that story. Or the boy who isn’t interested in a relationship and the girl thinks she can change him, but she never does. I’m familiar with that story. But you. You were never faithful. You were always sleeping with strangers and sending love notes to others. From the moment I met you. And you were also the one who asked me to move in with you. We got a puppy together. We spent at least one night a week with my parents. What could you possibly have to gain from this ridiculous façade of a relationship?

Sociopaths have a general disregard for the feelings of others.

Sociopaths are manipulative.

Sociopaths are selfish.

I understand what you get from the random fucks you have with strangers. I understand how much you crave the attention you get when flirting with other girls. I do not understand what you got from me. How could you do this to me? What kind of human being could be such a duplicitous monster?

Only a sociopath.

Except that you cried as much as I did when I discovered your secrets. Whether it was from actual guilt for what you had done or fear that I might tell people you’re not the perfect man they think you are, I don’t know. I do know that you destroyed something inside of me. Eventually the loneliness will probably change things, but right now even the thought of dating someone makes me physically sick to my stomach.

Is this what you wanted?

At the end you told me everything was real. Our love, our life, and you – you were real. You said that I knew 90% of you. It was just this other 10% you kept in the dark. And that 10% changed everything. I don’t believe that. I don’t believe the person I fell in love with ever existed. I have to think of you as a monster. A sociopath. Nothing else makes sense to me. I don’t think you’re capable of feeling actual love, although you have managed to fake it brilliantly. If you ever do feel love for someone, I hope they murder you inside.

Always,