What is it that makes dreams broken?
In 1847, a storm in the mountains
I don't like ordering coffee at Starbucks
I've been writing you letters I'll never let anyone see since September. I told you about them once when I was drunk. I write to you when I know I can't talk to you. It helps me cope. Keeping the words inside makes everything harder. Bits of those letters have made their way into this one.
You decided we weren't friends anymore without ever telling me. I asked if something was wrong, and you said no every time. But a new distance was there, and I didn't know why. You stopped speaking to me immediately after graduation, and I moved away for college three months later.
How many nights did I stay up later than I wanted to, later than I should have, to comfort or encourage you -- whatever it was you needed?