*My Dearest You,*
*You almost made me hate you. Almost. You tried to make me hate you to push our relationship back into perspective. Now I understand. Finally I get the point all of the pain and hurt for no reason.
Sure, I still think you love me in your own way. Maybe the way you love someone dear to you, not hot passion you might have for a lover. Sometimes it’s much sweeter perhaps.
That's fine by me, I guess. Who needs passion? It just clouds everything. Why bother with that anyway?*
*Only truth is what I want to hear from you. The truth is this—I can barely remember your eyes anymore, and that doesn't even bother me. I keep writing and cranking out pages.
Why should they have to be about you? You aren't a bad guy, but this is my journal and here I am writing about you, only so that you will stay out of my dreams and out of my head.*
*I told you some harsh things. I told you I didn't want you in my dreams, my thoughts, my journals and more. And if I don't hear from you anymore that is OK too.*
*I was crazy about you. I thought someday I might marry you but not anymore.*
*Part of me will always love and remember you in my own special way, not hot passion, just continuous love for one of many dear friends.*
*“The last thing I would ever do is make you cry,” you told me once, but what does it still matter to you? I won't cry. You don't have to worry about that.
I hope I never brought tears to your eyes. I never want to make you cry either. Let's not ever cry over each other ever again.*
This was not my reply back to him. Until now these had been my private thoughts.
I had sent a more casual reply to his light-hearted query, “penny for your thoughts” at the end of his E-mail that had ripped out my heart.
He had written back after 30 days of silence and was—as usual—magnanimous. I’m pretty sure I could rewrite his letter verbatim, due to the number of times I read it, but I won’t. There’s no need.
Plus, I don’t have it anymore. It caught fire several years ago.
I wish I could say that was it, all was over and done with, all was forgotten and forgiven and I moved on.
But I’d be lying.
It took me other another almost three years to get over him, time I spent in agony replaying every moment in my mind, studying every E-mail,
wringing my hands for every time I screwed up by writing to him about my feelings for him and wishing I could take back every word.
I tried to contact him again to apologize. I tried everything to make right what I had destroyed.
I never heard from him again.