(You mentioned wanting to talk again. Although I’m not opposed to it, I’m better at writing than I am at speaking about these kinds of things. I’m braver too.)
I’m writing this at 2am, but you’ve been the last thing I’ve thought about before bed for a very long time- why break tradition now?
I’ve thought about writing this letter and not sending it, but I’m tired of putting work into things to not have them come to fruition.
A while ago a friend made me promise to be more deliberate and I think I have to start here.
With that said, I’m not writing this to convince you of anything. I simply wanted to let you know how I feel/felt. I understand that this is the end. It has to be. We both have to be honest and sure.
I’m not going to pretend I’m not angry either. Or that I didn’t hold on to a lot of hope for this “thing” we had. But of course, the logical part of my brain recalls something that you said to me a while back… Something about “expiration dates” and “doing what feels good”. And you felt good to me and I knew that this had to end someday. I just hoped not like this.
With that said, I have one question- how long have you known?
You know that I hate wasted time, wasted opportunity, wasted anything, really. You said that “you wish you had let me know sooner”. Well, buddy-
Why didn’t you?
That would’ve hurt far less than me wondering, waiting, and preparing for the worse.
Fuck, I saw it coming, but I didn’t care. In this little bubble, you were right there with me- thinking the same thoughts, making the same plans. I think I saw consistency in the way you cared and ate that up like cauliflower buffalo wings.
And that’s not your fault. I’m messy like that.
Actually, I had tried to stop falling two Saturday’s ago. Call it naivety, or loneliness, or just plain clumsiness buuuut I couldn’t catch myself. These things happen so suddenly anyway.
The ground opened up beneath my feet as my hands clawed desperately at the air, but i got distracted by how good the rush feels between my fingers, on my skin. Falling feels like lying side by side under dirty bedsheets and tastes like your muffins and cheap boxed wine. Sounds like your promises and laughter and monologues about Spain and the tropics. Looks like you sitting across from me in the dining hall, eating raisins, stealing glances, and making plans for Thai.
You’d say “stop looking at me like that” and I’d smile not being able to articulate what “that” even means. I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it. I like(d) you. A lot. Sheesh, asshole.
You know what really blows? You grass-stained my favorite shirt and the sex wasn’t even that good. Okay, I’m lying, but that’s my favorite shirt! And I can’t help but remember the cider and that garden and your tired, brown eyes. And I used to hate your hot-ass breath, but I kinda miss the way it mixed with mine when we held each other that close for that much longer before scurrying off to class.
I’m sick of things being called “rare” no matter how true it is. Knowing doesn’t make me feel better.
Yes. I know I’m the shit. People gravitate. People admire and pine and lust and whatever else. But those people aren’t you. Believe it or not, you were/are special to me.
I’m not sure if I regret being vulnerable to you because I’ve backed myself into a corner now that this has to end. And I know you’ve offered to still help, but it isn’t the same and I can’t help but feel like I’ve lost a friend.
I don’t know what to do.
But hey, pal-
You don’t have to respond to this. You probably won’t. It’s whatever. You know what? Maybe I won’t send this after all. I kinda hate that you’re in my thoughts.
P.S. Fuck you, Tyler.
Artist- Marta Bellvehí