Dear You, I used to scan these letters religiously, hoping that one is from you, reveling in and fearing letters that are vague enough to fit the circumstances. I seriously doubt that you’d ever write one, but my heart is so stuck on you that I use these letters as some stupid, vague connection to you, a weird kind of hope. I hate my heart sometimes. I try to move forward, but maybe I need to be more proactive. I live in memories of you. Even then, I knew what we had was very little and time limited, though not because I wanted it to be. I sucked those moments dry, though, so I don’t have any real regrets. That doesn’t stop me from wishing and hoping and daydreaming about the could’ve beens, the should’ve beens, the would’ve beens. And I have no idea what you felt, if you were relieved or kind of sad or really had no feeling about it all, but I miss you like hell. And I’m not sure when I’ll stop. But I know the truth. And it hurts more than anything, but I suck at letting go. And it doesn’t matter to anyone but me, so I guess that’s why I write this. I wonder if you ever think of me. A lot doesn’t add up, but I know that I won’t ever get the answers – I had to drag them out of you as is. But I really just wanted to leave you with positive memories, and I hope that you sometimes think of the things that I said and that they comfort you in times of trouble. You wouldn’t let me in and maybe you couldn’t want me in the way that I wanted you, but I stand by what I said. You have a lot to offer, you know. And I guess the hardest part is not knowing if you’re happy or not. I hate not knowing, but I can’t go back. Sometimes I hope that you just know. But that’s just stupid. Irrevocably yours, Me.