I’ve been thinking about writing something for this show, considering the fact that this has been my favourite TV show in the past decade, and I truly believe from its very beginning that there won’t be another show that can exceed it in the foreseeable future, even in the slightest bit.

I love Villanelle so much. After seeing that fucking finale a few days ago, a little piece of me died along with her in those endlessly dark waves. I’m not gonna blame anyone in the writers’ room-I’m way past that skimble-skamble stuff because it won’t change anything.

So, I have decided. This is my letter to you, my beloved Villanelle.

Konstantin Vasiliev

Of course, you loved him. You might not know it yourself, but you loved him in your own way. It is not hard for me to imagine this guy might be the first human being that ever properly treated you, even though he was ordered to train you to be the greatest threat to society. He gave you a purpose, a career, didn’t he? And most importantly, he understood you and respected you in a much fonder way than he treated his equally psychopathic daughter. I know I sound ridiculous, but I think he did mean it when he said he’s proud of you. And you felt it, right? You behaved in front of him, bantered with him, and when you were ordered to take him out, you showed your mercy-you let him choose the pills, which I admit this prick tricked you anyway-and you didn’t harm his daughter after you were extremely pissed off by him.

You hated him after he betrayed you because you trusted him. But you’ve never wanted him dead simply out of your anger. You shot him just because that was your job, just like he has always taught you to do.

You refused to speak Russian under any voluntary circumstances, but you did say your farewell to him in your mother tongue. The relatively rude goodbye was expressed by such a heartfelt gesture. In some way, he was your past. He died, and the few remaining happiness while under his wings mixed with your broken heart caused by his selfish demeanour died with him. They had all gone away.

Carolyn Martens

I was about to say something about the first time you two met. But I recalled the first time we saw you guys together was probably in that shady prison in Russia. And then I remembered, damn, that shouldn’t be the first time you two meet because Ms Martens said in the final season that she met you a long time ago, way back in that orphanage (I need to control myself and stop venting my anger about the poor storyline because I THOUGHT there was going to be something that we could explore considering the fact that this old bitch literally knows you from the very beginning).

Okay, (deeply inhaled) let’s start again.

Obviously, you have a penchant for milf. Honey, we know it, don’t be shy. But you and Carolyn are a different combination. You admired her. In the early stage of the game, I simply thought you admired her probably because you yearned for control and power. But now I see this differently. I think you and Carolyn are exactly the same. You both are smart, funny, incredibly charming, and determined, selfish, ruthless, the kind of woman who will do anything to achieve what they want and never flinch even in the worst possible situation. That’s also the reason why you two could make such a brilliant team. Villanelle, you admire her because you admire yourself; your narcissistic ass is just shining in the sky.

But there is one thing that made the ultimate dissimilarity between the two of you. Love.

I know, I know, you might already begin to roll your unbelievably charming eyes. But yes, it is.

Carolyn Martens is never going to truly love someone. In that sense, I think she’s the damaged one, baby, not you.

Ms Martens has so many lovers and flings, and she betrays many of them. I thought Konstantin was an exception, but the relationship between the two is full of exploitations, and after all, according to the interview, he did kill her son Kenny. (https://www.tvinsider.com/1039953/killing-eve-series-finale-villanelle-dead-eve-alive-carolyn-mi6-fiona-shaw/)

(Gays, this is gonna be a whole new standard for a toxic relationship. We are both some kinda “normal” people, and I love you so much I don’t even know what to do so I killed your son.)

You’re not like her, Villanelle. You are far more capable of loving someone once you’ve learned what love is.

Eve Polastri

It was an earthquake, wasn’t it? The first time you laid your eyes on this Asian woman with amazing hair in that sombre hospital bathroom. God, who would’ve thought a bathroom would be the place you meet the love of your life? No wonder you had a thing for the bathroom afterwards.

It started with a pure obsession. She reminded you of Anna, your first love and the wildest desire that relentlessly haunted you. This woman, it seemed she didn’t care who you were; she studied you, investigated you, chased you all around the world. She chose to accept who you were and even tried to understand you. She stepped out while everyone steered clear of you, just like Anna.

You played her. Oh, you were so good at your game. You left traces of your crime for her; you brought her expensive clothes in her accurate sizes and sent her a perfume with your name on it. Just like a predator, you kept luring her into your trap.

Until the moment she was sitting across you and made a wholesome poetic monologue-she was also obsessed with you.

And then she stabbed you. Damn, this is not Anna-ish at all. You’ve never thought she had it in her. And what a romantic thing that could happen when you and your crush are in bed.

Do you know what is even more romantic? You didn’t blame her. You might be pissed off, but you didn’t hate her. She nearly killed you, and since then, you longed for her and pined for her. Like a newly whipped teenage girl, you wrote her a postcard hoping she won’t forget you and performed a brutally nasty murder for her in Amsterdam. But she didn’t respond. The random pregnant investigator sent by MI6 broke your heart in an unprecedented way-you cried. No proper word could describe the feeling in your chest because you’ve never felt like this before. Is this love? Oh god, why does it hurt like hell?

Finally, you two met at her house. As romantic as it went, your crush put a hit on herself so a professional assassin like you could meet her. (Gays, please write this down. Do you want a perfect relationship? Respect for their profession is the first step) You tricked her with fake suicidal pills and a fine bottle of champagne. Your crush acted like a complete dork, and you agreed to help her with the interrogation while pointing a vantage knife against her stomach-right at the position she stabbed you before.

You two became a team. Jesus Christ. You’ve never dreamed of this, being a good person working for the government while slaughtering a probable psychopathic terrorist alongside your crush.

The final trap you set for her was to let her join your pleasure. Instead of pulling out the delicate gun Konstantin gave you, you manipulated her into killing the annoying handler of yours with an axe. You knew she cared about you. She did. She left her equally annoying colleague to die on the floor so she could save you. The blood was everywhere; you’ve never felt so pleased in your whole life-she did everything to protect you; she killed for you; she must love you.

But she said she wouldn’t run away with you. She said you don’t understand the word love. She said she was sorry to disappoint you.

You didn’t know the feeling coursing through your veins at that moment. Were you wronged? Betrayal? Anger?

You chose the only way you were good at to end all of this. You shot her with the gun. And you turned away from her.

And then, you were getting married. I think your wife must really, really love you, Villanelle. She was so whipped, and she laughed at your poor joke during the speech. The only thing that moved me in that messed-up wedding was not your beautiful wife or the uninvited old acquaintance of yours; it was the term you used. You called Eve your dead ex. You seriously tried so hard to get over with her that you even got married. Nice try. (Sending love to Maria the bride)

And then you found out the supposed dead ex of yours was pretty much alive. You couldn't help your dramatic ass; you wore the best horrendous perfume and the gayest outfit you could find and met her on a moving bus. She didn’t say hi to you; to your surprise again, she rushed into you and tried her very best to attack you with her bare hands like a three-year-old. You must giggle on the inside, just like that one time after chasing her into the bathroom of her house, she threatened you with that ridiculous toilet brush. You smoothly pinned her down on that chair and asked the most profound question you could come up with-you asked her what did you smell of to her. You ignored the dramatic flickering sunlight and the gasps made by the terrified audiences on that bus. You ignored them all because she kissed you. Oh, that was the first kiss you two shared. Once again, she swept you off your feet. Oh, Villanelle, everyone could see you were totally whipped; love has been written all over your face.

You’ve changed. You couldn’t name the difference, but you wanted more since you began to feel more. You craved the things that bewildered you. You started to think what the world would be like if you had a family, or to be more precise, if other people loved you? You made yourself so busy chasing the answers (including going back to Russia and performing a matricide) until your ex-girlfriend finally caught up with you in the train station. You saw her through the thick glass on the moving train while she was running through the train station for you. Oh, that was so romantic.

You two met at a ballroom. In order to cheer you up, your ex invited you to dance. You two danced beautifully. You asked her if you two could be like the couples dancing around you. Be that normal, live that normal. For the first time in history, she didn’t reject you. She just played along with you with a sincere evaluation that she thought you two won’t make it. Her answer warmed up your face because…oh, she was thinking about being with you.

You remembered many things, including the matricide and Hélène the milf called you a monster. You told your ex with a slightly shaking voice that you’ve killed so many people. To your relief, your ex didn’t judge you; she didn’t throw out any hard therapy questions or express her moral concern; she just replied to you with a simple “I know”. You let out the breath you unconsciously held with gratitude. She truly is the only one who could comfort you.

You two worked together again. Neither of you knows if it was the kiss or not, things between you two have changed a lot since the last time you were colleagues. There was no hatred anymore. The tacit understanding and the unspeakable camaraderie made everything awkwardly smooth and efficient. You two shared two same goals. First, annoy the shit out of Konstantin Vasiliev; second, bring down the 12.

On the bridge, your ex asked you to make the monster inside her stop. You inhaled; this time, you knew what to do. You truly understood what you need to do to help her, even if that means you need to let her go. You looked at her with so much tenderness in your eyes, and then you turned your back to her and told her to walk away from you.

For the first time in your life, you were scared. You walked so slow because you knew you were losing her bit by bit. You stopped and waited. Finally, you plucked up your courage and turned around with great care. You smiled. Because the familiar face with the amazing hair flying in the wind were both facing you yearningly. Oh, she didn’t walk away from you. This time, she stayed for you.

I don’t know what the fuck happened after that beautiful moment on the bridge, all I know is that you somehow wanted to be a “good” person with the simple standard of being baptised in a church, and your ex kept a distance from you while being a newborn assassin. You two met in front of that beautiful fish tank. The entire fandom lost our shits when you were kneeling in front of her, and I don’t even need to elaborate on the unholy thoughts in our minds at that bloody moment. And then, not only did she slap you, but she also slapped the whole fandom out of our imaginations.

You’ve been shot. Thanks to the French assassin, she didn’t want you to die. But your ex didn’t know it. She thought she lost you right there. She panicked the shit out of herself and cradled you while you were unconscious. She thought Pam the embalmer was not qualified to address your wound; she thought everything around you needed to be sterilized and you should be in the hospital; she tried to stop Konstantin from showing the horrible arrow to you in a mirror because she thought a professional assassin like you couldn’t handle that stupid injury; she held your hand to support you as the arrow being removed from your back.

She watched you sleep. She helped you get dressed (and politely moved her eyes away from the bare skin under your neck). Villanelle, your ex-girlfriend loved you so much.

You were angry at her. Because she had you arrested and didn’t have the guts to admit locking you away actually did nothing good to her. You pushed her away and ignored her plan to bring down the 12; you went on your own journey, which began with killing the relentless milf Hélène. You finally tracked this milf down in her hotel room and hid under her bed. Before you were about to do something, your ex-girlfriend walked in. The flirty words that came out of the French milf’s mouth were literally driving you crazy. You were filled with anger and jealousy. You furiously pinned her down on the floor and slit her throat with a knife, and your ex watched you the whole time with the most turned-on expression I have ever seen in TV history. (That was also probably the gayest moment in TV history.)

You were so angry (or shall I say, you were being so jealous), so you decided to get as far away as possible from your ex. You went to the island that is owned by the French assassin, and somehow you found out she was an even more deranged psychopath—what a wonderful world.

And after one kiss, just one fucking kiss (yes, I don’t care what people say, I refuse to believe they had sex), she decided to U-haul the shit out of you. She chopped your little boat into pieces and moved your things into the cabin (and claimed you as her sex slave). But you knew she was delusional because she loved the 12 so much that she couldn’t let you kill them.

She chased you out in the woods with a machete in her hand. You hid in the bushes while surprisingly spotting your ex wandering around there. Of course, the French assassin immediately spotted the lesbian drama and started chasing your ex. You’ve never thought that your ex could pull off that kind of shit. This godsent angel saved your ass by climbing up a tree and jumping onto the assassin’s shoulder to bring her down to the ground. After strangling her enemy with both legs, your ex brutally scratched the assassin’s eyes and nearly dug those eyeballs out.

You two quickly left the island. In the middle of nowhere, your ex confessed to you. She told you she needs you; she wants to be with you. And you surrendered. You responded to her in the weirdest possible way- you lifted her up from behind and whirled her around with the most childish smile on your face.

The straight couple who shared the same shelter with you two read the tarot cards of your girlfriend’s future. Her future looked terrible-it was the death card. Your girlfriend was clearly burdened with the bad omen. You tried your best to convince her that there was no such thing as fate. She immediately threw the question back at you-she asked you that if there was no fate then what the hell is it between you two. You slightly lifted the corner of your mouth and gave up. That little rhetorical question melted something in your heart. She thought you and she were destined to be together.

In the quiet and peaceful morning, your girlfriend was soundly sleeping on her side beside you (and you were in an utterly gay panic that you couldn’t put your heart at ease), and you watched her. You remembered many things at this moment, including you nearly killed her with a gun in Rome. You moved your hand under the blanket and lifted the T-shirt she was wearing. Your girlfriend was awake due to your “stealthy” movement and asked what you were doing. You silently responded to her by pushing her back and continuing your motion until your fingertips finally made contact with the scar on her back. You let out a deep sigh and caressed the healed wound with your palm. She’s right. You are hurt, and so is she. You both nearly killed each other. You both harmed each other in the worst possible way. And here you are. After all those shits, you still are the one for each other with unquestionable loyalty and underlying consensus.

After you two peed behind the bushes, you walked side by side the way back to the stupid camper van. You wanted to kiss her so badly, but you didn’t dare to. You playfully pecked her on the cheek and laughed your way back. You were gratified enough. But to your ultimate surprise, your girlfriend’s face was lightened up into a ray of sunshine by your little gesture. She grabbed your hand and pulled you in, and kissed you.

You were dumbfounded at first (we understand it, baby, because we were literally holding our breaths and losing our shits in front of the screen); you opened your eyes to make sure none of this was a dream, and then you smiled. You kissed so many women with predatory hunger before, but this time, you let her take the lead and behaved as a teenage girl falls in love for the first time; she kissed you with so much tenderness and eagerness. You can barely breathe because of the absolute exhilaration of finally being wanted by the person you wanted the most in the world nearly devoured you. Eventually, you realize that it does not matter how long ago you fell in love with her; what matters is that she finally loves you back.

The smile on your face after the long, sensual kiss was radiating the most authentic joy in your heart. And looked at the dork on your left side-she's so madly in love with you, baby.

After you two boarded that stupid yacht, the groom mistook your girlfriend as their Japanese officiator. She took this opportunity so you guys could blend in and complete your mission. Before she left for the wedding ceremony, you grabbed her hand and pulled her into your arms for a kiss. (The camera angle for this kiss is terrible as shit, but who am I to complain? Gays, we got a SECOND KISS!!!)

You appeared behind the sitting guests’ last row before making the whole 12 meeting room into a slaughterhouse. Your girlfriend was officiating the wedding of two handsome men. At first, she was a bit nervous and awkward because of the last-minute improvised mission to cause the distraction; but she somehow made a customed wedding vow for you after seeing you there. I won’t repeat the beautiful words she said because I won’t be able to control my emotion, but I wanna point out that you instantly understood her. You knew every word she said; you knew the stupid Kintsugi metaphor; you knew she was saying she loves you across the room, in front of so many people.

And, let it end here.

Because in my stupid little gay-ass heart, I know you and Eve went to Alaska and lived your boring lives peacefully, happily ever after.

That’s it.

I have to admit that I only picked up a few of my favourite Villanelle and Villaneve scenes because if I wrote down every moment they shared, this letter would be long enough to be an essay. And also, rewatching for the sake of writing this letter is traumatising enough for me. Maybe beautiful things won’t last forever, and neither will this ship.

Villanelle forever changed my life, and I am forever grateful for that.

To this equally deranged fandom, that was an absolute honour to clown this whole journey with you guys. I see you; I feel you; I truly understand what this fucking show means to us. I hope every Eve will find her naughty, charming, pure angel assassin. I hope every Villanelle will find her sassy, smart, stubborn milf with amazing hair.

As for Ms Jodie Comer, I would like to quote the most accurate statement I saw online: “Jodie Comer is the best thing to come out of Liverpool since The Beatles”.