Unsent Letters

To the one who turned my world upside down:

I've often thought I'm too understanding, too much of a pushover if you will. But more often than not it's simply a fleeting thought, one that disappears right after I decide that it's better to be understanding and sorry for it later than not understanding enough and sorry for that later. I guess I always figured I'd rather be the one who suffers because I was too "understanding" and later hurt because of it than be the reason, or another reason, someone else suffers. I guess I always figured I could handle it. I'm tough. Right? Wrong.

You. Oh you. You've made me question that decision. A number of times, I might add. And yet here I am, still trying to be understanding. Still coming up with excuses for you. Because maybe one of them is true. Maybe you're not a bad guy. Maybe you mean well and I'm just misunderstanding. Maybe you didn't mean to. Maybe you're scared of losing me. Maybe if I come up with the right excuse I won't hurt over you anymore. Maybe maybe maybe. It's always a maybe with you. Never a certainty. Do you do it on purpose? Maybe.

I know I have a tendency to be overdramatic. You may not know that, though. In fact, most people probably don't know that about me. I keep it to myself. I guess that's not what you'd expect of an overdramatic person. I cry at the drop of a hat for what often ends up being no good reason, certainly nothing to justify sobbing over for hours at least, and definitely nothing to warrant jumping to extreme conclusions over, but I keep it to myself. In my own room, in my own bubble, where no one can see my pain. Even if it is just fleeting or imaginary. Or self-imposed.

I know without a doubt that I overthink everything. And I do mean everything. But just this one time, with you, I think maybe I'm justified in doing so. I don't think my overthinking is "overdramatic" this time. You threw me a line, a thin one, to keep me afloat. But I think that line you threw is what's drowning me now, slowly. It's wrapped around my neck, suffocating me as I tread water and try to keep my head above its surface, holding on for dear life to that one pesky little line you've thrown me.

You confuse me. More than anyone I've ever met, really. I'm an understanding person, as I'm sure you're well aware by now. I give chance after chance after chance. You've had so many chances to fess up. To just be open with me. Even if all you wanted from me in the end was friendship, isn't that what friends are for? A person with whom you can be open, a person you can trust? So why can't you just be open with me? If I haven't judged you thus far, it's certainly safe to say I won't judge you for much. I get it. So maybe you're not deserving of more than one chance. Yet I'm still willing to give you another chance. One more to finally prove you were, or weren't, deserving of so many chances.

I gave you months of my life. And quite honestly, I think it's fair to say you pretty much knew what you were getting into with me. I, unfortunately, did not. I'm an open book. I've done nothing significantly wrong in my life. Nothing huge was happening to me when you came into my life. Nothing huge was coming up in my life either. Nothing that would affect you as severely as this at least. Standard vanilla life if you will. But you. Oh you. You came in with baggage, and lots of it. And you weren't upfront about any of it. Even the small stuff, you sort of just threw it out there after a while, so nonchalantly as if I wouldn't notice- or god forbid care. And the big stuff? You didn't share any of it until it was too late. I was already hooked. And of course I'm understanding. You probably thought I'd get it, why you didn't tell me sooner. The worst part is, I did. Mostly. But that line you threw me? That brief little "tldr" of why you're going through what you are? It's fucking useless.

At this point, fuck the feelings I have for you that go beyond friendship. I don't need those. I can move past those just like I always have. Maybe with more difficulty than usual, because you really did seem so. much. better. than anyone else who has ever shown an interest in me, but I could. And I'm sure eventually I just might. All I've ever wanted was honesty. And every single line you spewed for not divulging bag number x sooner, I was understanding of. It made sense to me. Maybe that means you are telling the truth. Or maybe I'm just really fucking dumb. But the fact of the matter is, you've withheld so much that I don't know what to believe anymore. Everything I'm finding online about what you've said is proving contradictory to the things you've told me. What aren't you telling me? Why aren't you telling me?

I desperately want to believe you, mostly for my own sanity. I don't want to believe I was stupid enough to make a mistake of this proportion. I'm just having a lot of difficulty doing so now. And the fact that you pretty much sent me your goodbyes already, neatly packaged in a nice text thanking me for our time together and idly promising that you will be back one day, gives me no hope of any closure now. So thanks for that. I didn't fucking give months of my life to you for you to just leave me in the dark like this. I honestly don't know if this is better than being ghosted. At least being ghosted would give me a solid answer on something: You're done with me and it's time to move on. But this isn't ghosting. This is leaving, an actual scheduled leaving, with the promise of return. A return that has no set date, no set intentions, no set anything. Yet. And to make matters worse, you'll be the only one between us to know that return date, whenever you're able to find out. But what about me? What the fuck am I supposed to do with that? Everything that's happening is happening to you. It's easy to adjust accordingly, even if it sucks. But me? I have to keep living my life. I have to maintain that sense of normalcy. And you've gone and made that already difficult task so, so much more difficult.

Is this a goodbye? A see you later? Some weird in between mashup in which we expect it to be a see you later and it becomes a goodbye without the proper goodbyes? I have so many fucking questions and no clue where to begin. Not that you'd answer them anyway, probably.

I guess I just wish things were different.

Part of me loves you, dear. Really. But most of me, maybe even all of me, is extremely bitter toward you right now. Either way, see you on the other side, maybe?

While none of the residual essence of love or caring that I felt in this letter holds true anymore in even the smallest possible measurement, I share this here now because I do truly wish that it had not remained unsent. Unfortunately the closest thing I have to sending it now is posting it to the void that is the internet and hoping that maybe, somewhere, the intended recipient will one day come across it and understand the pain I felt.

I personally really enjoy writing letters and not sending them - it's a solid form of therapy in my book. If you liked any of what you read, or if any of it resonated with you at all, please feel free to like, share, follow, leave a tip, and all that jazz!

** Please note this is an original piece I originally shared on my Reddit account **