Letter You Won’t Be Receving, Sixteen

Dear You,

This is a letter I will not send you, but had it been different, I would have sent it to you anyways. So I will write as if I were sending it.

I will excuse my tears as effects of pmsing. Because I am most definitely overreacting and I am confused what is left to cry about.

Sometimes at night, I wait for everyone to fall asleep and I suddenly, yet unsurprisingly, end up crying in bed over I don’t know what anymore. That I miss you? That you aren’t calling? That I don’t know what I fucking want? That I wish we could fall back into a time where I knew nothing about you and you were just an interesting person who made the best company. To the times where I just knew you from seeing you through the window of the cafeteria walking to the library. Maybe that would have been enough, to go back to the time and not have befriended you. To go back to my life of books and studying without the distraction of you on my mind. Maybe that would’ve have been enough, to just have loved you from a distance.

I need to let you go right now, at least for now. There’s so much to study right now and you’re not being the stress reliever that you usually are. In fact, you are unknowingly causing trouble in my head that I do not understand.

Sometimes I replay the last time we saw each other and try to pull out the bad parts and the good parts and I try to figure out what could’ve been done better. I’d say I’d picture us in your bed sometimes, when really, I picture us in your bed all the time. Damn, I miss you.

Here I am, yet again, crying to the keyboard, watching my fingers dance as I try to decompose what the hell I want to say to you.

Do I want to get back together right now? I don’t think so. That’s me being honest with myself. Honestly, I really still am mad at you. Not about Z or D, just about S. I keep thinking maybe I’m not mad about S, but then the thoughts comes to me randomly and I’m mad all over again. Like how stupid could you be? And I keep thinking I’m not mad about the Halloween girl, but then suddenly, it comes to me and I think how could you? And I look through your Facebook and I see you liked an old thing by S, and it’s like ‘damn, what are doing?’ and I see you look up these random girls, and I’m like ‘fuck, is it that easy for you to forget about me?’.

And I’m so tired of pathetically calling and texting you and messaging you to things you don’t even care to really read or take heart too. Fuck, you know every time I write you, I end up crying?

You know the sad texts I send you, well I know their sad because I get upset when I write them, that’s the only way I know what I’m saying is true.

I wish I could stop talking about you. And I wish I could forget about our songs and our singing. And I wish I could forget about our handshake. And I wish I could forget about the way you kiss me.

And so sometimes I tell myself to get over you as if you’ve already moved on. Because for all I’ve known over this time, you’ve just been wild. And to be honest, I love your wildness, but your wildness, do you think of me during your wildness? And for that, I love it, but I hate it. And so maybe during all this time, aside from getting cheap thrills of drinking with Z and running through the night with D and skyping and messaging S like crazy, maybe you’re making out with caked-up strangers through the haziness of parties and maybe your exchanging numbers with fairly pretty girls with average goals. Maybe you’re going on dates with them, impressing the basic.

And I’m home, pmsing like a motherfucker, constructing this letter that won’t get sent, trying to balance all this mathematical theory that I’m definitely drowning in, while waiting for you to call me. How silly am I?

I won’t be staring at the phone too hard this time. In fact, this time, is going to be very long.

Damn, I love you way too much sometimes. Because sometimes I think I’d just forgive you anyways for anything in the long run.

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