In the end even thousands of words can do little to convey all the things I want to say, all the things left unsaid.
In the end this is my greatest confession, and even I have never thought that someday I would show you all this.
I can’t presume to know the way you feel, if you’ll be merely irritated, if you’ll be angry, or even read through it all. I can’t presume that it still matters to you what I think at all.
And…I guess it is a little creepy. And I guess I don’t know how I would feel to know that someone wrote thousands of words on me. I don’t know if you should feel flattered, or if I should feel pathetic for it.
I don’t want you to think I’m crazy for it. That I’m some psychopathic exgirlfriend who can’t let go, some girl in the past you thought you had ditched a long time ago.
But I’m tired. I’m tired of writing these essay length excerpts, tired of feeling like I need to.
And after all these words, I don’t need to tell you anymore about where you stand with me. You matter too much, always have, and maybe always will.
And I don’t know why after all these years I can’t let go. I don’t know why people come and go in my life, but you remain so permanently fixed. I don’t know why you can still up in my mind so often, when I see you so rarely, nor why it still matters to me what you do.
I am more afraid than I know how to be, at how you will respond. But I’m more afraid to continue lingering on in our half friendship.
I don’t want to digress to angst-ridden mooning on my part, to feel dismayed every time you speak of going on dates, disconcerted when you speak of girls. I’ve had a lot of time to learn to be comfortable with myself, weird quirks and all. And someday someone will appreciate me with all my snarky comments and awkwardness, and I’ll treat them all the ways I didn’t know how to treat you, and I will love them like no one ever came before them.
But right now I’m still too sad that that person isn’t you. And I don’t need to be drunk this time to blurt out all of these confessions.
I need it all not to matter to me.
So I suppose, I’m telling you all this now because I need to move on from you. I’m not naive enough anymore to spend all this time wishing for things that won’t happen, but I still care too much to fit comfortably into this small part of your life.
So forgive me, for throwing away whatever progress we have made in the last year. And every time I watch your uneasiness, I can see how much you’re trying.
So thank you, thank you, thankyou. For trying. For me, it meant the world.
This time, it’s me that can’t do this anymore.