On our last facetime call, you asked for a letter. More specifically, a letter in your inbox, a week after we called it quits, from the writer you dated. You walked out of my life like a breeze after coming into it like a storm. We danced, high on infatuation, just to realise that we are too young to commit, too young to take the distance upon us, too young to keep something that’s good. I know, I didn’t send you a letter. I think about it every day since I have written one to almost each one of my exes, apart from you. The irony is that you are the only one who would deserve one. And I know, it’s foolish of me to commodify my sadness and my fragile heart, just to publish my work, and if I were you, I would be confused, too. I know, I should send this to you directly, instead of giving it to the biggest space we have, the internet. But I don’t have the guts to give it just to you. I don’t dare to slide in your inbox, I don’t dare to ask you how you’ve been, and I don’t even allow myself to think about you. Since you unfollowed me on Instagram, I felt compelled to do the same, even if I didn’t want to. I got the message, my love. It was as clear as the look in your eyes when you looked at me.
I know, we’re not talking anymore. We’re strangers now. But the thought of you is more prominent in my head than anything else. When I close my eyes, I still feel your touch or I see the way your eyes stared into mine. Your doll’s lashes, you must be god’s favourite, I keep thinking. Do you ever think of me? Probably not. You are probably dwelling on your own problems and sadness whilst reading a Murakami novel. I don’t want to think about you, I don’t even want to write about you anymore, but what can I say? From the moment you stroked my hand in the moonlight, I knew, you’d take me down.
It’s not that I have not written about you. Of course, I have. I mean, what did you expect? The truth is, all my poems, all my essays, are still inspired by the blue in your eyes, the chestnut in the colour of your hair and the softness of your lips when they carefully touched my shoulders. It was liberating to write, but even more painful to edit. I wish I could read it to you, but I am scared. We used to talk every day, and now you feel like a distant stranger. I guess I want it to be different. I know, we are doing the right thing. Doubting that the other person even exists out there in the world. Sometimes, I wonder, how it would be like if we’d run into each other one day. Will it just be like I dreamed it to be? You, getting soaked into my storm again, and staying, without moving the furniture behind my back? Or will it just be a smirk and small talk until we pretend that what we had never happened?
It’s strange to think that you don’t know who I was before I met you, and you don’t know who I am now. I wish I could tell you. I wish I could feel your fingers hugging mine once more. I wish I could soak in the way we looked at each other, just for one more time. Maybe binging Kacey Musgraves new album made me nostalgic for what I only experienced so briefly. I wanted more of that, even though I never dared to say it. There were days when all I wanted was to be in your arms, but distance sometimes cuts deeper than a knife ever could.
Every time the train stops in your town, I glaze out the window, wondering if you may stand on the platform, spotting me. In my dreams, we look into one another’s eyes, with nothing but sadness and regret. The kind of regret that cuts deep. So deep that you wish to numb it. You’d probably walk away, just like you did before.
I think of all the women you’ll meet on the internet and take back to your apartment to watch movies. All the pretty girls you’ll pull in clubs and take to your bed. All I wonder is, will they be anything like me? Will they torture you with Taylor Swift romance songs, just to show you how much they like you? Will they invite you to their place and cook for you? Will they see the stars I saw in your blue eyes? I feel nothing but jealousy for them. Jealous that they get to feel your touch, hear the sound of your voice, and taste the sweetness of your lips. It’s strange to think how easy you’ll be able to replace me. She’ll fall for you, just like I did. Deep down I hope that when you look into their eyes, you’ll see the colour of mine when you hear them talk, hear my voice and when you touch them think of how it was like to be touched by me.
A few weeks after we broke up, I kissed someone, and it wasn’t you. He was good. Better than you, but I couldn’t go home with him, knowing that as soon as someone else undresses me, I would think of you. Think of how your touch felt on my warm skin. Think of how you looked at me after our lips touched. How you took care of me, without knowing it. How we spent 24 hours together and I just kept thinking that I want a million more hours with you.
Last night, someone else held my hand, but it didn’t feel the same way. Why does everything feel so wrong, why does the only one I want not want me? I titled you as my mistake, the banker stuck in skyscrapers, risk manager failed at calculating the risk of falling, but I didn’t say that you were my favourite of all my mistakes.
When we hung up the phone, I instantly regretted my words, my accusations to you when I saw the hurt in your eyes. Of course, I said a million and one things I didn’t mean, gushed out of my anger I kept inside for so long, would this even be a proper breakup if I wouldn’t regret it after? I wanted to hold your hand, cry, scream that we should give one another one more chance. I wish I wasn’t so cold. I wish I admitted that I felt for you. Cause I did. A part of me still does, even if I don’t want it to do so. I am following all the rules, I punish myself when I think of you, and I even try to avoid self-medication. The other night someone offered me gin, and all the memories came back up again. When I was younger, seven doubles got me over any boy, but you’re different. Not even fourteen doubles would help me. You are still living rent-free in my head, and I guess that’s okay.
You soaked me in, London Boy. You caught me whilst I was lost in the dark, searching without knowing that I was searching. You took my hand, not realising you did. In retrospect, you were the first man who really liked me. You made me disrupt my whole belief system, in a good way. You were that kind of boy I’d only refer to as “the one who got away”. Boy with the shiniest eyes in town, I guess you don’t know it, but you changed me, for the better- and for that, I’d like to thank you.
And I secretly hope that I’ll be the only one you baked brownies for on the first date.