the Sum of it all

36

Dear Oliver,

Every love song whispers your name, every melody feels like a memory I never asked to keep. Love, as the world defines it, has always been about you—soft, warm, consuming. And yet, every song of heartbreak, every lyric soaked in sorrow, sounds like it was written just for me. I have built you in hues too brilliant to be real, painted you with colors so vivid they outshined the truth. And myself? I have made dull. I have stripped away every shade, leaving only the remnants of what I was before you. I want to know how to undo this, how to unlearn the way I have loved you. But every time I try, my hands betray me, my mind betrays me, and my heart, foolish and stubborn, refuses to forget. 

I never realized how much nonsense I was spilling onto these pages until I started writing them. How could I possibly write about love when I've never truly felt it returned? How can I put into words what I want to let go of? I am the very definition of a paradox—contradictory, senseless. I love you, but I hate you. I crave you, but I want nothing to do with you. I don't know how to make any of this make sense, not when I, myself, am tangled in the very words I write. I just keep writing, letting the ink spill like my thoughts, because if I stop, then maybe I'll have to face the silence. And the silence? That's where the truth waits for me. 

Maybe that's what this is all about—letting myself get lost in the chaos of my own making because, in some twisted way, it's still you. It's always you. Even when I try to make it about me, it always finds its way back to you. And maybe that's the cruelest joke of all—no matter how hard I try, I will never truly know a world where you don't exist.

With love,
Mori