A letter to you

A letter to you about how I thought things were going

Dear you,

First, I’m sure you’ll never read this. You never had any interest in reading my writing. Reading me. So this, like all the rest will mean nothing to you. Just like I imagin I have.

With that said. I deleted your number, which I’m sure you know by now. I’ve never gone this long with out talking to you, because if I still had your number it wouldn’t have been this long, and it wouldn’t have been this easy. But two months ago when I finally decided it was time. It was time. I felt elated when I first deleted it. Knowing that sooner or later you would think of me, and text me. And I wouldn’t know who you were, wouldn’t instantly remember all off the times we spent sitting on your bed, chatting about life, and watching Netflix like we were trying to win some sort of race.

When you finally did text me, it didn’t feel as satisfying as I had hoped. It took too long. Almost a month after I had deleted you. And you didn’t even question why I didn’t know who you were, and why I responded as if I didnt care about you at all.

I had assumed you would text me again soon after. Asking, again, about school, and maybe this time inviting me over like all the times before. I imagined you picking me up in your tiny car, and driving me up the road to your house like you normaly do. Me listening to you as you talk about classes I would fail, and using scientific words I couldn’t begin to define. I imagined you sitting at your desk, and me on your bed, our normal spots, trying to decide on a movie neither of us had seen. Or just the newest one you had been waiting to watch. Or the episode of Battlestar that you were on. I imagined getting ready to leave, and turning to you with my prepared speech.

“I can’t do this anymore.” I imagined saying into your deep blue eyes (green if you were wearing that shirt I love) and I imagined you trying to convince me, again, that I was wrong about thinking you didn’t want me. That I was wrong to think you didn’t like me, or care about me. I imagined you sitting down next to me on your bed and like all those times before, telling me we were different. We didn’t need to be together, we just were.

But I didn’t want to hear that. I don’t want to hear that any more. So I’m glad you never called, never wrote, never texted. I’m glad you didn’t fight for me this time. Because this time I needed you to do this. To ignore me, and the fact that we havn’t talked. I needed you to let me forget about you. And forget why I liked you. I needed you to finally, for once, let me go.