Dear Charlie,
How are you? You've been gone for three weeks, twelve hours, two minutes, and thirty seconds. Okay, so maybe not exactly twelve hours, two minutes and thirty seconds, but three weeks for sure. I feel like we're separated by a brick wall, when I'm really just looking at you through one way glass. Watching you pass by every day is agonizing. You brush past me like I'm just another face in a crowd instead of someone you used to love. I guess I deserve the silence, we said we were done for good this time, but here I am, wishing for a repeat of our last episode.
Fight. Break up. Silence. Make up. The cycle was vicious. It still is.
I still find it amazing how quickly you filled up every crevice of my life, seeping into it slowly without me even noticing.
Do you still remember what I wore when we first felt that spark? Of course not. You don't have to remember those things any more. I was just a Band-Aid on your heart, but you were a tattoo on mine. I could be ripped out of your life, replaced, and tossed aside. But the marks you left on my life were a lot more permanent.
I still remember how you always pulled towards her instead of me, like she was the earth and you were the moon revolving around her while I, the sun stood back and bathed you in the warmth of my love, expecting nothing in return.
I remember the jealousy, the anger, the frustration, and the tears...
God, all the tears...
I remember the late night conversations, the perfect way your hand fit in mine...
I remember it all. The first words you wrote me, the first time we kissed, how you made everyone after you feel inferior until finally I found that one person I could be myself with again-I even remember those conversations we had about the future and all the things you said about it.
Maybe that's why it hurts so much to think about now.
Maybe it's because when I look into the past, and I look into the future, all I see is your face smiling back at me and it cuts me like a knife because I can't escape you, even if I try. The dreams you left behind are dead at my doorstep, the colour draining from them with every day you're gone. Even if I try to run, you're still there, like a phantom face at my door.
It's been three weeks.
Come back soon.
(please)
Love,
Amelia
