It’s November 30th again, but this year I’m surprisingly fine. I never told you this (and perhaps I never needed to because everyone says it’s obvious) but ever since you got on that plane and left, I always looked for a reason to be miserable over you. I would always go down the memory lane, looking for something to convince me that I still have something to hang on to.
Don’t get me wrong though darling, because I did love you. I did miss you. And sometimes I still do. And the first dozen of nightmares I had after you left was real. They were hauntingly beautiful that I was barely awake for the rest of the year. My first kisses with the other boys somehow tasted like betrayal, and I was disgusted with myself that I swore that there would never be another boy. I know, right? And before I knew it, I started writing about love. I poured down everything I know about what you and I had into words, and it felt good. And I guess that’s why it was so hard to let you go— you were my first muse. Feelings don’t come easy to me, and so to feel so in love, so inspired, so alive, my god, it’s like an addiction. You were breathtaking.
But, like everything else of course, the fire cooled down. And the distance wasn’t exactly of help. Slowly, I was starting to feel okay not having you around, and that made me mad. I didn’t want to feel okay. I wanted to be sad, to be miserable, I wanted to miss you every single day and cry myself to sleep every single night because I knew if I stop feeling sad, I’d stop feeling anything. And so I dug into the past, deeper and deeper, to have anything to hang on to. Anything at all.
You wanted me to write again. Something honest this time, you said. So here it is. I’m squeezing every last bit of what I have, so I hope you pay attention. This will be my last writing of you.
This time last year, I was mad at you. Because it was the time when you told me that you had finally completely moved on. There’s someone new. And even though I knew I was more in love with the idea of you, still, the thought of it ticked me off. It was like you closed every last opportunity for us to happen. Or maybe it was more like, “YOU DON’T GET TO MOVE ON BEFORE I DO, BITCH”. I’m not sure which.
(is that a smile I see? ha!)
My dear Alexander, after you got on that plane and left, I spent the first couple of years feeling so lost, not knowing what to do. And then the second couple of years in denial of the fact that it was over, not knowing what to feel.This is the 7th year since we first met, and although I was so tempted to put something about how the body regenerates itself every 7 years that I see has been going around, I don’t want to put something someone else wrote on my last letter to you.
I want to apologize for the way I’ve been clinging onto you. I simply thought that I would never forgive myself if I ever let something so precious go away on my watch. And I honestly thought that was what love is all about, I thought I was only being faithful, being loyal, being so dedicated to you by doing all of that. I didn’t realize that this was hurting you too. And for that, I am sorry. I didn’t understand. And maybe I still don’t, but at least now I know that’s not the way to do it.
And last, but never the least, I want to thank you. For everything that you’ve done to me. I couldn’t ask for a better firsts, and I wish you every happiness. You deserve it.