Creative Writing,  My Writing

Take a Break

Hi, Hey, Hello!

And it’s Monday! And I’m back on track, phew. Hope you have a good week folks!

‘Thoughts of you subside then I get another letter, I cannot put the notion away.’

I’m mostly good at this point. It’s still unrequited and all. Will probably remain as such given that the person who I have dedicated most of my love to is currently travelling the world with someone else before they then settle in a brand spanking new apartment in a city that is very much not the same one that I live in. In fact it’s as far away from me as it could possibly be while remaining in the same country.

It started off years ago as a crush. A small one that developed over something stupid and then just wouldn’t go away. Then one night when I couldn’t sleep I googled ‘how to get over a crush’ and found out that if a crush has gone on for longer than 4 months then it has manifested itself into something closer to love than infatuation. I read this at month 17. I was definitely screwed.

And apparently a little bit in love.

Which made sense I guess, I did conform to all those feelings that are talked about in the songs and in every single form of entertainment possible. When I talked to my parents about love they seemed to describe the very things that I was feeling. But, despite all that, it was 100% unrequited. And just as I made my peace with the fact that I was probably in love, I also made my peace with the fact that it was going to remain one sided.

Because, by that point they were already in love with someone else. Blissfully happy and content with their life. Which was, and still is, all I could ever want for them.

So I lived with it.

And mostly got over it. I mean I did still sometimes think about them and feel a little fluttery, but I was over it.

Until they went on this around the world trip and decided that they wanted to take me along with them in a way. By writing letters. Actual physical letters. That came in envelopes covered in stamps and were sometimes pages and pages long. The pages were dog eared and there were coffee mug stains on some, food on others. They felt lived in even though they were just pieces of paper.  They wove tales and created images that did exactly what they intended. They took me along with them.

I felt like I was there and a part of it. It was like I was living this adventure with them. It removed me from my boring reality that consisted of working, sleeping, eating, working out and binge watching whatever I could get my hands on and threw me into one that was full of vibrancy and colour. Full of excitement and variety.

It was honestly ruining my life.

With every day that it felt like I was done and could put that feeling in a box and lock it away for good I would get home and there would be another letter. A pastel coloured envelope with my name and address looped onto it in beautiful penmanship full of promise and hope and I was right back to being a hopeless teenager. They somehow served as a reminder of the thing that I wouldn’t have. Couldn’t have. It was becoming a struggle to deal with.

In their absence it made my feelings harder to ignore. The letters were a thoughtful and conscious effort. They took time to compose and meant that for periods of time I was being thought about. All the things that they were doing they were also thinking about me while doing them. Even if only for a moment, they were thinking about me. And I had the proof of that. Letters all collected in a shoebox that I was hiding under a jumper in my room proved that I was being thought about.

And I was the only one getting the letters. Others got emails and sporadic texts, but I got the letters. And that added fuel to the fire that I had largely put out. The fire that burned for the idea that they might love me back in some way. I had extinguished it, but these letters were sparking something again. And no matter how much I tried to remind myself that it all meant nothing in the grand scheme of things, I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t help but fall into old patterns. Old patterns that would do nothing but hurt me. I knew that.

But the fire was still burning. Getting stronger, bigger, brighter with every letter that fell into my apartment.

And I can’t bring myself to tell them to stop sending them. I know I should. I know I should remove myself from this situation and protect myself. But I can’t.

The letters are keeping me going. They are a bright spark in my relatively dark life. It feels like I need them now. I’m dependent on the letters, on them, again and I can’t seem to stop it.

I’m right back to being 15 again, and I can’t bring myself to hate it even though I know I should.

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