Dear, Gwendolyn.

Do you remember, those night where we would be up all night, flipping tarot cards over and over again?

I remember the paintings inside your room. The one you made hung on the wall with all those dark-greyish colour. And your painting supplies piled up just beside the door. The ones I was so jealous about because I couldn’t afford one myself. Is it still there? I’m sorry I (kinda) stole one of your paint tubes.

I believe in salvation. I just don’t believe one is in store for me. We agreed on truce some times ago, didn’t we? And you tried to chat me up a few times. I’m sorry I couldn’t return the favor. Like that summer where we accidentally met, I genuinely don’t know what to do. What should I talk about? What should I reply to you? I sounded like an awkward teenager trying to talk to his crush, didn’t I?

I’m sorry. It’s not like I don’t want to talk to you. I’m just afraid of upsetting you again, and again, and again, and then you would leave again. I’m fine being hated. I’m not if it’s being left. You were my best friend. At least if we couldn’t agree on ‘friend’ terms this time, I would be happy with just being someone you hate. Yes, I’m that desperate.

Believe it or not, dear, you were the rock that leads to an avalanche, in terms of my friends leaving me. I’m used to it, but I don’t necessarily have to like it either. Perhaps I’m just not good at keeping friends.

Do you remember that particular sunny day where I lay half-naked while you smoked on the stairs?