When the secret lover dies

"He can't do that," was the first thing I thought when I found out that Caspar had died. I was standing at the window of my apartment when the text message came. From his partner, whom she probably sent impersonally and presumably to all of his contacts. Last night he fell asleep.

I knew he had fought cancer for over three years. Caspar fought against a lot and for a lot, stood up for his convictions, and he was a tree of man who refused to accept the disease. Who had nine lives, as he once said. A stubborn Westphalian, a special person. I could have cut everything down with anger, angry that he had no more life left for this fight. A man like him doesn't go away.

Caspar, 19 years older than me, whom I was allowed to call my lover and partner for a while in the last 20 years, but always my friend. Somebody like him is a constant in my life. Now he should be gone. Who should look into my soul now and know when I'm sad before I know it myself? I dialed his number. Heard his voice telling me he would call back. He always did. He was there for me. Even after we broke up. At that time I wanted to move in together, security and a regular life. He couldn't give that to me. He was marked by a thirst for freedom, lived extremely and without limits. He wasn't told anything and hated rules. He was often offended because of it, but that too made him off. We didn't end our relationship in evil; it was clear to both of us that it would never be over. I still loved him.

I feel like a widow without being able to say it

Caspar remained a fixed point, a contact point in my life. Whenever I had an argument with my husband or anger at work, when something important happened, I called him first. And when I was with Caspar, it was very special. It was mundane. His apartment our cocoon, shielded from the outside world. It was just us. Small escapes, time out, Pink Floyd with "Comfortably Numb" and "Shine On You Crazy Diamond". Intense and extreme, wonderful and wicked, including the sex we kept having over and over again. But above all the conversations, discussions until late at night over white wine and joints. I loved his razor-sharp mind, his intelligent wit, and his precise phrasing. You can end a relationship. Not that special kind of love. At least I couldn't. For my husband, Caspar was just my ex from earlier times, nothing else. Little did he know that I was mainly with him when I went back to my old hometown Frankfurt, for him I only met old friends from my clique. At some point I confessed the affair to him because I wanted clear structures in my marriage. I promised my husband that I would end it and break off contact with Caspar. I really tried that too. I didn't make it. As it turned out, I couldn't go with him, but I couldn't without him either. As strange as that sounds, I was and am very happy with my husband. But my marriage had nothing to do with this one love.

I didn't tell my friends anything

Caspar had also been in a committed relationship for the past few years. His partner knew that I had once existed and that we still talk on the phone from time to time, that's all she knew. I hadn't told my friends either. I knew that they wouldn't like it that I was cheating on my husband, and I was afraid that one of them would gossip. Besides, Caspar should remain my secret. And so it was. Nobody knew that we were still so closely connected. And the price was that I was now alone with my deep grief that I couldn't share with anyone. I had always felt so comfortable and secure with him, and often as if I was painted with happiness from the inside. Until the very end. Even if at some point there was no more sex because he was so sick. I went to see him anyway and we talked. And now we would never be able to talk to each other again. I was kind of a widow without being able to explain it publicly. I felt terribly lonely.

When I went shopping, I only saw things that he liked

I wondered whether I should tell my husband the whole truth after all, that contact with Caspar was never broken – you couldn't be jealous of a dead person anymore. But then I didn't do it because it just seemed too selfish to me and because I didn't want to hurt him. The following weeks were appalling. I got headaches and back pain from sadness. When I went shopping I suddenly only saw things that Caspar had liked to buy when he cooked for us. I couldn't stand the smell of our brand's sherry any longer. Everything hurt. If a moment between Caspar and me was very nice, he would take my hand and say: "We will freeze this moment and hold onto it." Of course, I can't know what a normal life would have looked like with us – if everyday life had moved in. When fighting over mundane things like taking down trash or shopping. But I wonder if we shouldn't have tried. To live our relationship more and more openly, according to our own rules, without secrecy. So I can only think back and be grateful. Trying to freeze and capture moments.

I learned that the burial at sea was at the end of March. That day I was at the sea and thought of him. It still hurts, but my grief is gracious at times. She leaves me alone more and more often, and then I can just think of him like that. And about what he has been to me and always will be.

* The author writes under a pseudonym

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