I wrote the following letter months ago, in an enveloping despair and unhappiness, but with an iron will. I had never before been so determined to leave you behind, at least in the part of me that matters.... needless to say, it didn't work. Until now. Though the circumstances written of in the letter have changed, it rings true: for now and for always. We have parted ways without a goodbye. I hold no bitterness, no anger, no remaining trace of that overwhelming emotion, no trace of the passion. And yes, I am the liar you always knew me to be.

I'm not writing this to say goodbye. There is no goodbye to you. I have loved you from the first day that I saw you. To those who don't 'believe' in love at first sight, I have only this to say: you're wrong. It's the kind of love that doesn't go away. Ever. It only recedes and recedes and recedes, like an ocean, a shore. Pathetic simile? I suppose.

But I still believe we came together for a reason. Look at the circumstances, the beyond-comprehension series of coincidences (I no longer believe in coincidence, just so you know.) I found you 1000 miles away and finally got the courage to say hello. Imagine that. And I fell for you again, and falling is the right term. We have so much in common, right down to our handwriting. You are my other soul, and I will believe that until it's proven true in some other life than this one. You are my one true love.

When I saw you again, my body was beyond my control. My knees shook; my hands shook; my nerves shut down. I couldn't think, speak, retain motor coordination. Your figure destroyed any chance I may have had. I'm sorry. I love you. And this is what love does. You ought to know, since you've got her now.

My god. Why her, and not me? I always deluded myself and thought that maybe it was the distance factor that prevented you from ever saying you wanted to be with me and heal me and make me laugh, and let me do the same for you. But that theory was shot to hell when you told me about her, another girl from this town you left behind. Oh, well. Such is life. And I still love you.

And now I've got him. And he's not you, and he will never be you. But nobody has to know. Least of all him. When I agreed to this arrangement, deep inside, I knew I was just looking for a way to compensate. I agreed to it the night you told me about her. I cried, and then I said yes to him. I don't love him. Sometimes I even question whether I like him as anything other than a friend.

Friends. Yeah, M., we're friends. I promise you that. I will always be here. When she breaks your heart (and she will - I know her type), I'll be here. I'll pick up the phone and make another $50 long-distance call and listen to you curse love and become "neutral" again; listen to you say how it's not worth it to care. Then I'll hang up and cry because I know it doesn't have to be that way. You don't have to hurt.

But you don't know that. I never told you how hearing your voice makes my heart stop, literally, if only for a breath. Or how, when you almost died, I was in hysterics and could say nothing but 'oh my god' for half an hour. Or how all my poetry is in some way about you. Or how I cry when I read it. You don't need to know that. You just need to know that I'll be here whenever you need to talk. Whenever. It doesn't matter. I always have time to listen to my heartbeat.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry if you read this and realize it's to you and then hate me. I'm sorry that I never let you know you were both killing me and allowing me to live whenever you said "I love you" (you don't say that anymore.) I'm sorry that I'm not what you want, not enough to make you whole and happy. It's not by any choice of my own.

But I know that, at least for now, I need to search for fulfillment elsewhere. This isn't goodbye, though. How could it be, when you didn't even recognize 'hello'? We're friends - just friends, like we've been. But for me, things need to be different now, inside my heart. I need to try and give him what he deserves - my undivided attention - even though he can't be you.

I love you, M. I've always loved you. I will always love you. But I can't have you, and it's unfair of me to hope that that will change, and to wait, growing progressively more bitter and jaded, until I grow to hate him, you, and everyone else for something they can't even begin to fix. So I'm going to try now. Wish me luck. I'm going to need it.

Yours eternally,
K

There it is, M. The letter I wrote. It seems like so long ago. I shrug to myself and laugh when I read it. A bitter laugh. Although the "her" and the "him" have changed, the basics have not. And my prediction came true; it was my shoulder upon which you cried. But you know what? I didn't cry this time. and I won't waste my tears on you again. Ever. I don't hate you. In fact, I still love you, and I believe every word I said. But I'm finished crying for you and waiting for you and pining for you. I don't even think of you that often. You'd be proud of me, you know that? You would. You always told me that the guy I cried to you about was a jerk and that I should get over him; he was the stupid one, not me. You were right.

Free,

K