I don't want you to read this anymore

If you are reading this, I want you to stop. Make this the last time you read my column. I would have rung you, but you changed your number when you closed the door to my flat for the last time. I would have called on you, but you never told me where you lived.
I will not see you again, but there are some things that you should know.
Firstly, you should know that I want to erase everything I have written here and that you have read. I want to tear it down, rip it up, change my user profile and pretend I never typed a word.
When you emailed me telling me how much you liked my story I didn't know it, but you had already destroyed this website for me.
You gave me an audience, but you became my editor as well. I wrote everything for you, knowing that you were reading it. I didn't want to scare you aware, and I wanted you to like me. Even now you are gone, I am using my site to write to you: in my space, hoping to find you.
I want my space back. It is enough that you invited yourself into my world unsolicited, that you came into my flat, sat on my sofa and laughed with my friends. You ran your fingers across my surfaces, lifting off the thin layers of dust, and stroking the spines of my favourite books. I let you open up draws that I had not opened for years.
You sat and watched as I wrote; you laughed at how I snuggled under my blanket, covering my knees like an old woman, sucking on my coffee and cigarettes. And you laughed at how easily you distracted me from my work. I can still smell you and it makes me shudder.
Now you have met me, and rejected me, you will never read my work again.
When you click on my next story, you will not think about the characters I am describing and how, but the grey tracksuit bottoms I wear when I am writing. You will think of the strong black coffee that I hardly touch, but that I feel a real writer should drink.
You will judge me for all this. You will think of how little I wrote when we were together, and I know what you will think. You shake your head and you will decide that I write because I am lonely and I need to talk. And you will decide I do not love to write; I write to be read. And possibly you will surmise I loved in order to be read.
But I do not want you to be reading this anymore. I want you to turn off your modem and exit the ether. It makes me shudder: I might be lonely; I might be sad; I might not deserve you and I might not be capable of really feeling.
But I hope you are reading. Because I want you to stop.