Dear You

Sorry for taking so long to respond. I know I keep saying this, but I just need time to process exactly what I want to say. Obviously, I'm trying not to get too emotional. I'm really glad to hear that your anxiety is better and I understand what you mean. I was really anxious too and filled with guilt. I was unsure of whether I should stay because the last thing I wanted was to hurt you. Like you said, it's for the better.

I have to admit that early on when we started dating, I was alone in your room and read a short passage in your diary where you talked about how you suffered from constant anxiety. Before that, I had this idea that you were this invincible beautiful force that almost dictated my happiness. I didn't think of you as a real person with your own insecurities. Reading that you dealt with this constant dread and desperation, I saw you differently. Like we were equal, like we were on a team. You were this beautiful fragile girl who was also infinitely strong and brave, and always knew just what to say. You were mine and I was yours, and all that except that was all, and we both knew it. We were both feeling that same ambivalence and lack of passion. We were wasting each other's time, and I happened to act on it first after five months of waiting and dreading and wishing it wasn't so. But it was, and I ubered to your home and stood in that same doorway I had so many times before. We joked about your weirdly psychotic cad. I tried not to look at you because I felt so bad, and as the words came out, I realized that none of this was surprising. It was just this shared painful relief.

I think about that day a lot, how alone I felt before and after. The coziness of a relationship makes it so easy to forget the piercing sensation of solitude. My bed feels just a little bit more empty knowing that you'll never feel it again. I still have those little synapses firing when something funny or stupid happens to me, and my first impulse is to text you. And then I have to remind myself that everything is over, and a part of me is forever gone, and that it's probably for the better. Yeah, I've been seeing other people. I've honestly seen too many, maybe out of some form of escapism or maybe out of this seemingly noble idea that I need to figure myself out by dating lots of other people. But all of these faces and names and contacts exchanged just leaves me drained. Sure, I've had good experiences, just like I've had bad experiences. And sure, you never fail to seep into my mind at the most intimidating moments, moments that I only ever really had with you.

It still feels wrong, but I need to get used to it. Just being single makes me feel so stupid and pathetic. I'm now more likely to spend far too much time on dating apps, talking to strangers that I have nothing in common with and share no interests with, other than a quiet and desperate yearning to not feel alone."

I'm also more likely to end up forcibly engaged in conversations with friends about how hot a girl is, or who they want to sleep with, or who I want to sleep with, or how it is, or any other sort of excitable signaling that they are, in fact, straight. It was kind of nice when we were together, and my daily activities didn't leave me feeling so pathetic. I guess that's the thing about us - the honor and meaning behind it. We were building something as a team, or a couple, or, at the very least, too overly agreeable and cooperative idiots. What were we building towards? Well, we wanted to love each other, and we were never entirely sure of whether such an object was already enough to fit the definition of love. I certainly believed that love only required hard work and a sincere interest in the other person, and you believed that love was something holy, passionate, and, from what I remember, predestined at first sight. I think we've both shifted in our positions a little bit.

Love is obviously pretty enigmatic, and you can't force it. And perhaps my initial view of love was my attempt to overcome the hard truth that the most important things in life are always brutally out of comprehension. But I felt it at one point - months together during the pandemic, cuddling and drinking and watching stupid shows. I felt the warmth, I felt the fuzzy feelings, and before I left for home for 10 months, I even said it, perhaps out of the pressure that I'd regret not saying it, that I'd be on the other side of the country and realize that I should have. But I did it, and you said it back. And then, as each frigid month passed, and each phone call became more and more dreaded, I found that my love had departed as quickly as it had arrived. And what a terrible feeling that was, because I wanted to love you. You were perfect - compassionate, willing to put your foot down, you were weird in a uniquely beautiful way. You were my companion to so many adventures and memories, moments that I'll forever revisit with a certain tinge of sweet and bitter. I don't know why I couldn't love you, nor you me. And I don't think I'll ever stop wanting to, or at least, I'll never stop wondering if it wasn't possible somehow, especially in those nights where the silence becomes all too much. That's when I'll think of you and regret it all. But it is for the better, right? It is. I want it to be, anyways. I found one of your sweaters under my bed, and I'm wondering if you'd like me to drop it off. Anyways, I hope your family is doing well, and I really wish you the best in life. You deserve to be happy.

And I still miss you.