It seems so long since I last wrote to you. It seems longer since I last saw you. Every time I try to sleep, I see your face the moment I broke you. I hate knowing it was me who did that to you, the way your eyes lost their light. The pale tones of your cheeks. Your trembling upper lip. I recall each detail as though you’re still in front of me, and although I expect nothing but your resentment and distrust, I miss you.
I don’t want to. I know I shouldn’t. I know I don’t have the right to miss you, or write to you, or see you. I thought about writing this letter weeks ago, but convinced myself not to. I know this isn’t fair, but I can’t forget about you because despite everything I’ve done, I want you to know I love you, that you’re the best thing to ever happen to me.
I’m sure you’d like explanations and answers, but I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to give them to you. It isn’t because I don’t trust you. I trust you more than anyone, but I’m not sure I trust myself to admit them. Out loud, they’re so real, but hidden away, they remain secretive nightmares I can pretend don’t exist.
I know none of this makes sense, and that after you read this - if you read this - you’ll only have more questions. But I need you to know that I miss you and have always loved you. I can’t stand the thought of you believing my love was a lie, because although I’ve lived much of my life as a lie, loving you wasn’t one of them. I’ve wanted to share the truth with you many times before, and I nearly have because I trust you more than any other person I know.