A year had passed.
I know this letter will never reach you, but there is a little hope in me that one day, you might read this somewhere, or hear it from someone else's lips – that there is still someone writing to you; she's hoping that this would be the last time.
It took me a year to understand what you really meant. I was blinded by the thought that I loved you to the point I ignored all the reds.
This letter is meant to be a closure for me, perhaps a goodbye for the love we almost had.
You do know how bad I am with roads: the zigs and the zags — the turns and lights and the rules to follow. “Understandable.”, you said. But the other night, I was in the middle of strangers passing by, I felt invisible for a moment and the paces I took seemed familiar. For a moment I remember that I was loved by you.
It was the same path we shared for a single night, the conversations that we had were still posted on the abandoned streets but they don't scream at me anymore. The burning colour of street lights no longer scares me - rather already stopped wetting my eyes. These memories don’t hurt since... maybe a little, but not as painful as it was a week after you left.
It took me 57 days to realise that you’re not coming back. I kept on telling myself that you were just trying to absorb everything. I believed the lies I told myself.
Was it real? Did we ever meet? Did you really exist?
To be honest, at this moment I don’t know anymore. Maybe you’re just another fiction I created or maybe you’re just someone I wish I had.
It was so painful, I felt it.
And until now, I still can't stop myself from writing about you.