21st July, 2015

J, R

Dear You,

I went out yesterday. With someone.

It took me twenty-one minutes to figure out it wasn't You.

It was everything I've already done and had and everything I didn't really want – there was fine food and crystal glasses and dimmed lights and ambiance, and he told me he was glad we could catch up, and that he was dying to talk to me.

It felt nice…it just didn't feel real.

I'm not quite sure what I'm looking for, anymore, for I've looked and I've looked and I can't make up my mind. There was laughter in his eyes and concern in his words and there was goddamned enthusiasm in his voice when he told me his stories, weaving one while leaving another unfinished. Words – so many,charming, words – that painted vivid pictures of his life I couldn't help but get lost in.

Except, not really.

You see, there was a catch – for all the time I spent with him, I couldn't think of a moment when You weren't on my mind, and I was constantly drawing parallels between his smile and the sparkle in his eyes and the way his shoulders curved when he reached for his drink and the way he enunciated his words with the images I bear of you in my mind It didn't quite match up, darling, and that's what broke my heart.

I don't think I can take it – this unbearable waiting and suspenseful build up, only to have my hopes dashed to the ground through no one's fault but my own. It wasn't his fault, I implore you to understand – his touch was soft and his smiles genuine and his words kind – but when he touched my hand nothing stirred in my heart, and that was the Moment I knew.

I know you understand what I'm talking about – that empty, hollow feeling where there should be butterflies and euphoria, that feeling of being lost in a familiar city, the ennui that follows futility of your actions – and who do we hold accountable for it? Who's to blame for our empty palms and aching hearts? Because I've sought as far and wide as I can, darling, but never have I ever found a smile that hitches up in the corner quite like yours does, and their touch seems foreign and their words incomprehensible, and there's a part of me that resents You for not having found me yet.

I'm writing to ask you this – do you not miss me? Does her touch not seem foreign? Does her smile really warm your heart as I once hoped mine would?

I write to sate my vanity, my love, for there's a part of me that fears that you don't really care anymore, and what do I have to hold onto if not my own hope?

I'll go out with him again, in a week – for his touch is soft and his smiles genuine and his words kind. Find me, love, before it's too late. Please.

Love,

Me