This is something I don’t I want you to read one day, stumbling over it in the dark recesses of the Internet, as you tip back in your swivel chair and wonder to yourself, “Did he write this about me?” Because both you and I know it is. I don’t want you to because it’ll hurt, just as it hurts and re-hurts me every time my fingers begin to collide with these black squares as my mind is filled with mistake and heartbreak and 8 A.M classes every day of the week but Wednesday. I can’t have you read this because you know that it is about you and that, like always and forever, I have and will write about you.
But right now I just sent it. As I sit here in the coffee shop, about to pick up my shift, I sent the most moving text message I had ever laid my eyes on. Nothing about it was particularly moving in a way, but because of the fact that it was from you, and because I haven’t talked to you since I have left, it moved me; I was distracted. You know when you have a dream and it affects you in a way you can’t describe throughout the rest of you day? That’s how this text message felt. As everything began to converge and diverge throughout the day, I couldn’t help but maintain an elevated heart rate for what seemed like my 5-hour shift of Fridays. I re-wrote, revised, re-did, re-read, re-adapted that text for 43 minutes before I sent it to you. And god, did I want to say so much more to you. But I couldn’t. So I wrote this instead.
I’ve heard that when you truly go acutely into a state of selfishness, what someone discovers is that you say to yourself, “I love myself and I see my own gain, a place to take control and excel in any way possible.” But truly, what is the self that someone loves? What does someone want? Well, in my case, I want you. You know that, I know that, and sometimes, I just want to be selfish. I wish I was selfish with you, but I can’t. So, unlike my other writings, this is one I hope you never find.
But I need you to know that I’m sorry. I truly am. Don’t ever think I wanted this, because I don’t. That text I got from you made me want to say, “I love you” more than I ever have before. Because I do. Because everything is the same. I still write about you, think about you, sometimes dream about you, and yet it’s not. Because of the fact that you are no longer mine. And it kills me. And the fact that I made that choice kills me slower but more painfully as I have to live with it. That night, that decision, was one of the most difficult things I had ever done. I went against my own heart.
In the end, all I was afraid of was saying good-bye. That night, I sat, cradling your face, memorizing each detail and noting every last mark and freckle. At that moment in time, in that last lingering moment, I was desperate, frantic to capture this final image. The horrible sink in the pit of my stomach was telling me that this was goodbye. Don’t ask me why it has to be like this because I don’t know. The utter fact that I want you now and always doesn’t make sense with why I left that night, not knowing if I’d ever see you again. All I want is you, that’s all I’ve ever wanted. But not 1000 miles away, where my heart slowly begins to break as we both get upset and frustrated with the distance. I couldn’t let us get to that point; I couldn’t have what we had to slowly become toxic; I couldn’t let us begin to take out the anger we had for the distance out on each other. It almost got to that point a few times last year. I… just… couldn’t. I’d rather keep this flawless memory in my head of the girl with hair like fire when sun beamed down on it every other day of the week, but not on Sundays, because that was our day to be in bed.
I have never cried that much in my life, not even to myself. When that night ended, and you slowly held my hand and led me out your front door, inch by inch. The scenario, this inevitable end seemed surreal. This wasn’t happening. That’s all that ran through my head. But it was, and my heart broke as a fractal; shapes upon shapes splitting and eventually disappearing. I chose this, it was my fault. And there, at the threshold to your house, you left to the dining room to emerge with that little book I always teased you about. I never really knew what it was or what it held inside its pages, but you gave it to me and I cried.
And then, I left. You were gone.
And I cried, because it felt final. I always believed that we would eventually find our way back to each other. But this time, this last time — it felt final.
You were gone as I stumbled to my car, practically in shock. I wanted to turn back and say, “Let’s run away”, but we both had separate lives now; We had prior commitments that we were forced to keep. But I knew, in my bones, that this was it. I chose this and now I had to live with it.
I’ve heard the phrase before “It always is harder to be left behind than to be the one to go…” But when you are the one to go when you don’t want to, that’s when everything crushes you. I hurt you.
I remember going home that night and reading the book. Wow. I bawled. In retrospect, it even shocks me how I could even do that the way I did. And I did it all night.
But you are and will always be such a huge part of my life. Either by all the things I keep that you gave me, or the bracelets I wear that you made me, or the little black and white flower I keep taped behind my iPod Classic.
Honestly, this is for you, but not for you to find. I could really care less about the others that read this. And the people that read this and comment saying that love is “bullshit” or that I’m “a baby” or that this piece is “awful and cliché” can just go fuck themselves. Because this is my letter to you. Not to anyone else. I’m not here to showcase my brilliant writing intellect between the hours of 1 to 4 in the morning. This is my apology, my asking-for-forgiveness speech. Because I am sorry — to you, to me, to us and what I broke off. We had the most amazing time together, and you and I will forever be intertwined, always. Either by thought, or dreams, or maybe by fate. I will never forget you and never stop writing about you because you mean so much to me. I probably will never be convinced that you have forgiven me, even by reaching out to me. But I’ll call you soon, and we’ll talk, and hopefully laugh, just like old times. And maybe, just maybe, we’ll see each other in the future. But don’t hold onto that hope because that’ll hurt too much.
Forget about me for now and I’ll come back when you are truly ready.
Just don’t find this, and don’t read it. Because, yes, I love you and, yes, I miss you. But right now, that’s not for you to know.