Dear Henry,
You sound happy. She must be wonderful. I should be thrilled for you, but there's a knot in my stomach I can't untie, a weight on my chest that makes it hard to breathe.
You described her in such vivid detail, her laughing eyes, her gentle touch, the way she makes you feel alive. With each word, I felt a piece of my heart chip away. Remember when you said I hung the moon? I wonder if you say that to her now. Does she appreciate how your eyes crinkle when you really smile? Does she know how you take your coffee on rough mornings? Does she understand what a treasure she has in you?
I'm jealous, Henry. But I don't hate her. How could I, when she's brave enough to do what I never could? No, I hate myself. I hate how cowardly I've been. I hate that I let you go so easily, that I watched you slip through my fingers like sand. I hate that she was brave enough to tell you how she felt, to reach out and claim the happiness I've only dreamed of.
The truth is, loving you, Henry, has been both the most beautiful and the most painful experience of my life. It's a bittersweet melody that plays in the background of every moment, like a reminder of what I lost by staying silent.
I'm trying to be happy for you. I really am. But all I can think about is how it should be me. How I've loved you silently for so long, and now it's too late. I'm sorry. I know I have no right to feel this way, but I can't help it. I'm drowning in what-ifs and might-have-beens.
Please be happy. Even if it breaks me.
Your friend (always just your friend),
Celine
July 2015
