The Letter

Dear self,

There’s so much I’d like to say. It’s your birthday eve, so happy birthday. In your head, right about now, you are trying to decode what has happened in your life for the past five to six years. Even though twenty-three isn’t old, but this is the oldest you have been and I know, it’s getting harder to make sense the messy thoughts of yours. Of what to become, of who to love, of what to say or do. Sometimes it’s even harder to be kind to yourself.

You have been battling the private war in your head around the corner of Love Street. The fact you are fixated on the idea of love is so sweet, and to certain extent, it’s like a gift and I don’t want you to ever lose it, but at the same time you’ve been too hard on yourself. The problem with you, for the past five years of your adolescent/young adult life, is that you always revolves your life around your Old Crush. The young love you never had. And I know, it’s goddamn frustrating.

While most of your girl friends have dated and broke up and met someone new, you’d stick with the thoughts “Screw it, I’m enjoying the no strings attached kind of relationship, I don’t want to settle.” And on to the next person you can have fling with. But just fling, nothing more, you’d remind yourself. Then, when the Old Crush shows up, somehow, at random times, like rainbow, you’d glow like a pot of gold, and come back to the Nostalgia Room, hating yourself more because let’s face it, what the hell are you doing.

Maybe the reason why you’re like this is because you are lonely, and empty. And admitting those, is much harder than falling in love silently, with someone that is probably as good as a stranger, in which you projected this romanticised idea of your ideal man in the good Old Crush, who dies hard or maybe will never dies.

Don’t be mad, all of these are just theoritical. Maybe you haven’t been in love lately and you desperately needed it. Some part of you wouldn’t let go that kind of feeling, romanticising someone, because it always is beautiful. But now, come to think of it, what if what you felt wasn’t even love? What if you’re missing great stories with the ones who you classified as flings?

I, though, won’t deny what you felt was grand, beautiful, and overwhelming — so much like love, but was it?

If you are stubborn enough and feel like in order to make peace you have to confess to this Old Crush, then do it. I’ve heard this thoughts for a while now, which sometimes you recite a paragraph or two in the shower, making sure you’d say just the right amount to him — “I had a massive crush on you, emphasise on had, Fiya, past tense remember,” you thought as you rinsed your hair, “and this means nothing,” yes if nothing means everything. But after all, you’re the one who says you’d do whatever it takes. So go ahead, and find out. Maybe this is what it takes.

But I dare to create this scenario, say if you are given a fresh start. Say you were never been in love, and try how love would feel like. Try as if you’re falling in love for the first time. No threshold, no box to tick, points to compare. No Old Crushes. No history of the comfortable unrequited love whatsoever. How would it be like? Would it be something like trusting the guy you have been dismissing like some irrelevant One Direction rumours, who said he’d bet all in to be with you?

And my God. Before you’re drowning in self-pity being in taking actions regarding this Old Crush, which potentially would snowballs with other worries and end up being unkind to yourself, remember this: you are incredibly loved. As much as you’re not aware. Look at the carrot juice your mother made every morning, look how kind and patient your brother has been letting you annoyed him everyday even at times when he’s at the most tired state, and your father, do I have to even begin who technically, made your dream come true?

Look at your friends. Your personal painkillers, who supports you no matter how shit your writing is, they would still post it up on social media as if their friend just published a New-Yorker-worth article or even a Pulitzer awards.

Then, there are those who’d willing to swim through metal-junk traffic and pick you up and drive you home, to compensate your lack of skills in driving, even if it’s passed their curfew? And even if it means they have to take longer route all the way down South.

I’m talking about those who are there consistently, day and night, not those who come and go. Those who text you and actually make time to check up when’s the best weekend to hang at wherever-place-sells-beer, because they know you love beer.

Remember them. If those weren’t love, then I don’t know what love is.

Look, I’m sorry if you put certain vaux-expectation on others who perhaps don’t appreciate you as much. I’m sorry sometimes those who matters aren’t always visible to the eyes, because you’re too busy feeling.

So, please. Please, love yourself better. Love them better. Don’t let yourself consumed all too much on one kind of love because there are so many around you. Because then, you’d probably would appreciate more of the unseen, the littlest mindless details. Love like you’ve never been in love, love like you are the only person to be loved. Stop being concerned of having, and just be.

Sincerely,

Alifia