9th November, 2015

J, R

Dear You,

I haven't forgotten about you. But believe me, I tried.

How long does it take for love to turn to hatred? For affection to turn to resentment? What thin lines do we tread, out footsteps light and ungainly, staggering under the weight of our own expectations? How long does it take for patience to turn to resignation, and desires to turn to regrets?

I do not know yet, my love. But I'm beginning to find out.

I hate (hate, hate) how you always seem right within my reach, but never close enough for me to truly recognize. I hate (hate, hate) how it's been a decade and I go to sleep every night sobbing on no one's shoulder but my own. I hate (hate, hate) how I have not an idea of what moulded your mind or shaped your psyche, as you battle your demons on your own. I hate the idea of your existence, if it is cursed to be so far removed from mine.

My love is a jealous, possessive, raging beast, darling. I think it's time you know.

I've begun to settle, you know – I've begun to settle for lazy conversations and insincere compliments and passivity. I've begun to settle for cold hands and shallow eyes and inconsiderate monologues. I've begun to settle for ordinary – I've begun to settle for less. And I'm furious with you for letting that happen.

Do you not count the moments I waste away in despair? Do you not care about how my solitude is turning into isolation, my peacefulness into ennui? Does none of this matter to you at all?

Is this how it's meant to be? For us to swim along complacently in a state of okay and alright and I'm fine when there's a passion waiting to take us to dizzying heights? Or is my love childish and whimsical and I truly have no idea what actuality even feels like? Where does reality end and my daydreams begin?

It kills me, every day, that while I'm spilling my heart on the pages for the world to see, you're lost in the shadows. It kills me to know that of the thousand ears listening intently, you sit in silence. It kills me to know that in a sea of seven billion, I'm utterly alone, and so are you, and there's so very little we can do about it.

It kills me to know that there are mightier things than my power of will – there is fate and the stars and chance and destiny, and I will never win the wars I wage against them, and so I prefer to hate you in silence and isolation, almost as earnestly as I love you - for what else truly belongs to me, if not my own heart and the hope of one day beholding yours?

I suppose we might as well call this our first lover's quarrel.