I know you know: I have a journal. Yet I can’t find the courage to write it down and risk seeing it again – so frequently, that is.
I feel so guilty; you know so much about me, yet so little. My heart is clenching even as I write this letter, and it’s with remorse. I have so much to say but nothing comes to mind.
I’m not in the country, but far away. These few days have been the worst; so many hours of the day I’ve thought of you. Hell, I even dreamt of you. We’ve spoken, exchanged stories, but I feel so bad when I speak to you.
You are a bloody drug.
A positive one, that is. I’ve grown so much since we’ve been friends, but that’s the problem: we’re friends, and forbidden fruit is the sweetest. Your touch is electric, platonic. A part of me longs for more, but the other pushes it away; it’s irrational, problematic.
My first instinct is to call you and ask for advice, but that’s the least I can do. A part of me hopes it will just pass by, that it’s a phase, but I know it isn’t, and that it’s naive to think so. Damn it.
Damn it. Why do you do this to me?