I’ve crossed out your name, or well rather, censored your name as one: I don’t wish for you to find this, and two: If you actually care to know anything about me you’ll find this anyways, and know it’s you.
It’s been about half a year since we met again and about four years since we stopped talking. I guess what they say really is true, that it only takes a day to meet someone but a lifetime to forget someone. It’s been four years, ——–, but I still remember everything as if it were yesterday. The time we passed notes in math about projects. Me wishing that the note was about love, when it was about a cat. Me falling for you hard and beating myself up for it as I do still, me having homeroom with you, me getting to be with you, me in a world where our friendships and schedules and our goddamn conversations collided. Everything these days sends me into deja vu. How we met over video games and music. Something we still share in common today. How every time I see you with your nervous crooked smile like you’re trying to hide it- how it sends me back to our winter trip where we had snow and my hair froze over because I didn’t get to blow dry it and I laughed and laughed as I snuck glances at you from two tables over. How I so desperately wished at the very first dance that we would talk, you glancing at me avoiding your eyes and me staring at you, barely looking away in time, the way you were too scared to ask me out so you had her do it instead. I think it’s been a habit of us ever since we met- a habit of gravitating and orbiting but never meeting, and being constricted to a mere aloof form of friendship. Old habits, do in fact, die hard.
I remember the way that you fell for her over me, the way I desperately asked myself why you couldn’t see that I was perfect for you, the way that I wished and wished that you would see me again as more than a friend, the way I tried and tried to get over you. This is all too familiar a path for me, and just remembering this takes me back. And yet as we are now, this all remains the same. I am once again confined to friendship as I ask myself why you don’t see me in this way as I give myself the inexplicable answer of “That’s just the way it is”, the way our friends will never be truly our friends together, the way your friends look at me as strange and the way my friends look at you as different. And I come to realize now that there is so much more dividing us, so so so much more than just our hearts and our feelings.
And through this love letter I must confess that I hate it. I hate the way you don’t reply to me, I hate the way that we don’t share secrets, I hate the way that you don’t love me in the way I want you to. I hate the way you talk about her and the way that you blow me off for other people, I hate the way that you can’t or won’t bring yourself to talk to me. I hate the way I treat you, pushing you away to fall out of love but just ending up loving you all the more as I force you away. I hate the fact that you’ll never appreciate me for me, the way my eyes sparkle as I take in ancient books mildewed with age, the way my breath cuts short at seeing the sunrise, the way I swoon over the metaphorical symbolism of random things along the streets.
But that’s all on you.
Some day I hope you’ll realize that I tried to take you on an adventure. I was different than all the other girls you’ve ever met. Maybe I’ll be different from any girl you’ll ever meet. But what you could see was that I was different. Or maybe you couldn’t. Because I know that you definitely refused to see the picture I’ve painted for you. If you had come with me, I could’ve shown you everything- the way the world changes when you look at it with a different lens. But that’s on me; I tried to be for you someone you never asked for, someone you never looked for. I just hope that you won’t try to look for me when it’s too late, when time has done its job and gone marching, when all I can do to console you is to mouth “sorry” as we pass each other in the hallway, my eyes turned down like how you turned me down. By then, it will be much, much, much too late. And I will be sorry.
Within my love for you here I apologize, not that I ever expect you to read this. And if you ever do, you’ll indignantly think as you often say to me- “stop having so little faith in me.” And I’ll apologize and explain that it is a mere coping mechanism for unrequited love, and that surely you must know this feeling that I have felt too many times. I’ll tell you, if you confront me about this letter anytime soon that I have in fact lied, and no longer love you, yet by the way my eyes refuse to meet yours I will have let the birds out of the cage. And I’m sorry. I hope that one day I can rid myself of this disease and look at you with eyes that do not betray me, eyes that only convey soft friendship.