There’s this logical part of me that knows you will never read this. It’s the part of me that says to put down the wine and not text you. It’s the part that says moving on is the healthy choice or, really, is the only choice.

It’s the same part of me that thinks of you happy and thriving, and in a strange way, gives me a lot of joy. Even if it’s not with me. You being fulfilled is about as close as I get to feeling 105% happy for someone else. You, in love. You, making a difference in your career. You’re exactly what I always thought you’d be.

Beautiful, hard-working, caring.

The logical part of me knows you must hate seeing my name. That when a mutual friend mentions my career, how I spill my guts for a paycheck, and sends you a link, you roll your eyes. I like to think you’re proud I followed a dream, but that rational me kicks in again. And she says you’d be tired of it. I would deserve that, I suppose. I overstep my boundaries, I know. It’s not okay. I should pick a new topic. I should stop talking about how often you cross my mind.

And honestly? I’d stop if I could.

I’d stop if I didn’t have a fucking dream about you every other week.

Even though I don’t want it to be true, you occupy such a huge part of me. I still love you, in some way. Maybe not a way that makes sense or is even grounded in reality. But it’s still there. And your voice whispers to me when I can’t sleep.

You’ve been the love of my life, so far. Besides my parents, you’re the person who made the biggest difference in who I am. I hope you know that. Even if you don’t want to, I need you to know it.

I need you to know how much I regret letting you go.

The first time you kissed me was in March 2010. I’ll never forget it. So many things in my life have become blurs. But you? You’re in technicolor.

You’ll always be brilliant to me.