Letters to you

To be honest, I never really entertained the idea of being your girlfriend. I’ve joked about marrying you with my mom and Heleen, but I always shook it off. You were my friend, that was it. And besides, you were impossible to read so I never knew what to think of it.

When people would tell me that you and I were made for each other I’d laugh. Funny guys, but I definitely don’t like him that way.

I guess that was a lie…

I never planned on telling you about my real feelings, until that night in your car when everything just tumbled out. I thought it would set me free but it did something completely different to me. It bound me to you, made me wonder about the things we could be. Suddenly I was entertaining that idea of being your girlfriend. I wondered about what you’d be like, caring, sweet, casually teasing me. I wondered what it felt like to feel your heat radiate while sitting next to you on the couch reading, what your lips felt like. I wanted to know, I needed to know. I’m still curious.

I’m also hurt. More than I might be letting on.

I cried that Wednesday. The day after I stayed in bed all day. I hate myself for letting you have so much power over me. It makes me insecure and worried because I doubt you realize you have this power and what if you misuse it?

My mom has been worried the whole week, ‘cause I was showing signs of heartbreak. All though she had no idea.

I don’t blame you for giving me an answer that I didn’t like. I’d rather have you being honest with me than hurting me later on because you actually weren’t sure.

Something that I do want you to know is that I don’t understand. I don’t understand you. You confuse me so much. You tell me no but still draw me in like a yes. I feel like you’re saying no with your mouth but your heart still isn’t sure.

And of course, it’s all scary and difficult and I might be completely wrong. If so, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to drop all this on you, once again. But whatever your answer is, I feel like there’s more to the story, things that you are not telling me. And I wonder. And even though I’m telling my heart to let this go, to let you go, the only thing I want to do is run to you and scream and yell at you for hurting me like this, for not understanding. I’d also tell you that it’s okay, that I’d heal. Somehow.

I’m sitting here, at the table, in an empty house. It’s 1 AM and I’m on my fourth glass of wine, debating whether or not I should let you read this letter. Maybe you should never know, maybe that is best for you and me, right now. Like I said, eventually, my heart won’t yearn for your touch.

Is there a piece of you that feels the pain I feel? Is there a tiny splinter in your heart tearing it apart? Or do you really not feel anything? I have all these questions and I might never get the answer.

I was hoping this letter would give me peace, a chance to write all this away. My fingers have been aching to write ever since that Wednesday but I didn’t want to let go so fast.
The letter didn’t bring peace or understanding. The only thing it did was make the pain so much more real and the frustration so much more alive. I wish you’d just turn up my driveway to come tell me you were wrong. I should go to bed before I start writing down all my dreams and wishes and turn this into a letter the cool girl in me would vomit over.

My small, sensitive heart hopes that you will be happy with your choice, after all, I really do want you to be happy.

Time for another sleepless night.

Forever yours.