I found a letter you wrote me, pressed inside the pages of an old notebook. It’s been so long I don’t exactly remember when it was written. You spoke of missing me while I was out of town, excitement at seeing me when I was due home that night and then a list. A list of the things you loved about me.
Loved. Past tense.
Reading the list makes my throat clench and blurs my vision with hot angry tears. You loved me, you loved me this much and still we destroyed it. I destroyed it. I’m so sorry.
You will never see this, our worlds rarely brush against each other, we’re very careful to avoid that. If I ever loved you I can prove it by letting you go, hoping for your happiness, owning my responsibility and swallowing my sadness. It doesn’t mean I don’t miss you though, because I do. Terribly.