I wish I could stop writing you. I wish I could let you go and find myself again, but wherever you are is where I am.
I went through my yearbooks again tonight, 1999 and 2000. I read what you wrote to me, and I cried for that sixteen- and seventeen-year-old boy. There was so much hurt in those words you wrote; you were asking me to see you, and I was blind.
Now it seems our roles are reversed, and I’m the one you are failing to see. For the short time you came home, you were my best friend. My partner in crime. The one I wanted to laugh with, cry with, eat with, watch a movie with, do everything with. There’s no evidence left behind of the time we spent together, no documentations in pixels of color that I look to for memories of happier times.
I shouldn’t still miss you. You don’t miss me. But that’s how it was then. You wanted me. I didn’t want you. Is there any way to meet in the middle anymore? I want you to be happy, and I want you to be loved. I just want to be the one you’re happy with and the one who loves you. Someday maybe I’ll pull up that stupid website again, and I’ll check in on you, like I did in the past. And maybe, just maybe, it won’t hurt me to see you with her. I saw your future, but I could not see mine.
I don’t know where I’ll be. Who I’ll be with, if anyone. I just can’t see anyone but you. I would live every moment I could—from beginning to end—from the time we were fifteen up until now, just to get everything right.
I don’t know how to believe that in the end it isn’t you and me, but I wish that day would come sooner rather than later. But if there is that tiny sliver of chance I’ll see your name on my screen again, this is what I’ll say: “Don’t come back if you’re not going to stay. Because I will fall for you all over again. And I might tell you I love you tomorrow.” Will you be ready?