9 January 2020
Good morning. It is shortly before eleven in the morning as I type this, so, good morning, and I love you.
I just wanted to write to you to tell you how happy and how grateful I am that you came into my life. As I was writing what I intend to do for work today (and now I’m done with 3/7 of them), I realized that my mind has not been this clear in a long time. When there is not too much to think about.
20 January 2020
Good morning. Last night, you tried to break my heart. (I say try, because my heart is still whole, whole enough to love myself and the pieces of you that might want to stay, all odds hoping.) I wish I could weave and wrap myself into the bits and pieces we have of us still left. There’s always hope. Above all things, love always hopes, and love never fails.
Maybe I’m kidding. Maybe my heart is broken, and I want nothing more than for you to stay with me. And I would beg and grovel and cry over it endless times over, if it meant you stayed with me because I love you too much to share you with someone else. I spent last night crying in my dreams, only to wake up with no tears. Honestly, I don’t know which one is worse–that even my subconscious knows the gravity of what you wanted, or that I wake up in the morning, knowing that there’s a vast feeling of nothing that only you could fill.
I miss you and I miss us and I miss the feeling of ‘home’ when your arms open to envelop me in them at the end of the work day. I miss the smile you give, the one no one else can have, because I know it’s a smile you made for me to savor and enjoy. I miss the parts of you I knew I could have, because even then if I knew I can’t have you whole, I’d work every day to make you come home. I miss all of you, and how everything feels at peace when I am with you. I’m not sure where I am sometimes. Am I with you, or am I struggling to win you back?
Promise, I will work for us to be made whole, one day at a time.
It is the twentieth of January, and my love for you remains the same. I love you, and I love you with every fiber of my being. Only you would know how many days we have left; rest assured I treasure each and every single one of them.
21 January 2020
I am typing this from my bed.
I guess this is it. My heart feels heavy, my heels are throbbing, my pockets are empty and I feel like a house robbed of what could have been a home.
Over and over again, you keep telling me how you weren’t sure of who it was you loved: was it me, the new, novel person you met months ago, or was it still the same person all along, she who saw the hills and the valleys of your last three years?
I could have told you a lot of things. I apologized for my shortcomings, of which you said there were none. If anything, all you wanted was me to be proud of you, of us, and of what we shared. To be honest, the months with you have been fleeting yet they were the most glorious ones I’ve witnessed in my existence. Biology says we have three, four years between us, yet when time is just a construct and feelings are to be considered, the way our relationship bloomed felt like the first months after the winter thaw.
Your love and the entirety of you, to me, was so new and held the potential of a batch valedictorian headed into the Ivy Leagues for college. In the shortest time, we became friends and enemies, biggest critics and fans, lovers and partners, all at the same time. We started off rocky and fought our way to pave our roads, yet half a year later I’m back where it all began.
I wanted so much for us in as much as you dreamed of so much for our future. There were things I did not say, many of which might be here, in hopes you read them someday. No one would dare tell you they dreamt of the future and began to work for it, like the dream house you thought of but I’m five figures in. In the days we had together, plenty but not enough, we wanted to travel and I tried my best to work out how to make all your wishes and dreams come true. To be loved by you was the greatest reward, to be appreciated by you was the best kind of love.
But maybe love was not enough. Maybe spending a few hours each day was not enough. Promising to be there for you 5 days out of the 5 I’ve been given was not enough. Maybe my assurances, kind words, affirmations, my touch, my time and little trinkets were not enough. I’m at a loss where things could have possibly gone, but things as they are, are gone anyway.
I have no use for regret, save to hold on and wait and make amends with my mistakes.