I have kept all the letters I wrote to you. These were merely words I should have said, while some were things I hope I knew back then. Most of them were kept inside a jar so I could throw it away somewhere where it could reach you, parts of it are still in me trying to find its way to my letters.
I was able to get the chance to talk to you again, but the fear of choosing a wrong word to start a conversation troubles me. I am still pretty much keen to making everything seem prefect, that's one thing that hasn't changed. That's why I chose to not reach out to you in that manner anymore. I went to the places we visit, I walked through the same roads we used to be in, the walls can no longer tell that our feet used to wander there. I almost forgot that we used to share something that is more than magic. It wasn't like the first night you left.
Was it fate's fault? Or is it ours for defying its power?
I remember when you told me that it is not what you were looking for, that what we have may be romantic and erotic yet is not what I deserve. I was too naive to understand that you were basically trying to tell me that it wasn't love. What we found wasn't meant for us. And honestly, I am still as confused as I was two years ago. I find it funny sometimes that I comfort myself with the thought that you used to be mine. Was it selfish of me for believing that for once I was loved?
That something so precious didn't crash when it landed on my palms?
I lost all the letters you wrote me, it somehow helped me to get over you. I might find it somewhere else but if ever that happens, I hope I will be brave enough to laugh it off — for believing I was too foolish to believe you really loved me.
And by then, I will be most certain that parts of me are no longer with you.
06/2020