Letter: 8

My little madman,

Half a year, almost, has passed since my last laugh - I have been so dreadfully sore from your touch-and-go. I will never forgive you for hurting me so much, for making me feel more realer than I liked. This time last year, I had just begun to recognise this as an infatuation. I had just begun warning myself against the repercussions - that summer would come and I'd be apart from you for longer than a weekend, and it would make me dreadfully anxious and distressed. Imagine - that was my biggest worry. That was when I believed there would be a You to come back to. Like a waiting solider. I was never bold enough to be your front-lines, though - if I had, if we all had, would you have stayed to fight the cause? 

I'm not going to lie, it's gotten easier. That's not romantic, of course, but you are still my biggest love, even if you don't cripple the rhythmic footsteps of my heart. You are still my One, you are still my final person. I forget your voice, your mannerisms, but it's when it comes back, that it hits the hardest. Not when they tell me they've seen you, walking around in your normal slip of skin and doing your daily life completely devoid of me: you haven't thought about me in months. I know that much. It hurts the most when I am closest to you: when the memories leave track-trails on my neck. You never did.

Oh, my dear, I have to leave now. I've nothing left you'd want to hear and I am planning on continuing on with myself. The only thing I want this year is success. It's no longer you, you, all you, you, you. I want me. I choose myself. 

Yours,

Abbey