I thank God for man and man’s capability of innovating technology. Because if it wasn’t for that gift, I would have killed a few hundred trees with the number of times I would have crumpled a sheet of paper with the things I want to tell you. A few clicks on the keyboard and I’ve either paraphrased or deleted a couple of useless sentences.
Hi there, stranger. Do you still remember me? I’m sure you do. But as you say my name in your head, it’s in that passive, detached voice of yours that annoys me to wits end. You know very well how I detest being irrelevant. Enough of me and this pointless rant about how you say my name in your head.. How are you? I haven’t talked to you in a while. The last conversation we had was via text messaging and me relatively under the influence of alcohol. I’m not saying that I only want to talk to you when I’m drunk. It’s not that. I want to talk to you, but I know that I shouldn’t. Alcohol makes me forget the latter. I rarely see you around school, not that I’m looking for you. I’m still not used to it, I guess.
Do you still remember how we’d talk ’til the wee hours of the morning about random things that didn’t usually go together but we found something in common about them? It would usually be because we both were partial to the two topics or because we would make them work. Remember how we did the same thing to us? People didn’t see it, us. But we made us work. Kudos to us for not being overrated. How very nonconformist of us. Do you still remember?
I’m sure the ‘us’ bit is disconcerting for you. The thought of an us flew out the window a long time ago. Or us was a homing pigeon that only knew your past address and after a few months, it found you in your new apartment in the city. It’s either romantic or crappy. In our–your case, it’s probably the latter. I’m sorry if I keep making things awkward for you. The letter alone is awkward, the content made it worse. I don’t know. I can’t control myself. I thought I’ve moved on, but I haven’t. Not yet, at least. I am moving on. I just wanted you to know that.
I’m actually a little mad at you. Why? Because you’re a jerk, that’s why. You’re an asshole, a grade A douche bag. I’m mad at you for being that way. But I’m not saying that you’re that kind of person, no. Not to everyone, just to me. I don’t understand why you had to lie to me about things. You know how much I value honesty, right? I don’t see the point of you lying. What, to make things easier? Did it even cross your mind that it would be easier for me if you just told me the truth? Because the truth does not produce ‘what-ifs’. I’m mad at you for that because I hate ‘what-ifs’. I hate them, and you… a little.
But I’m going to stop being mad at you now. And no, it’s not because I don’t want to be mad at you anymore and be friends with you again. No. It’s because I don’t want to be mad at you anymore. Because to be mad or angry implies that you care. And honestly, I just want to stop giving 2 fucks about you. You don’t deserve it.
But before that, let me tell you this:
I miss you.