Letters I've Written, Never Meaning To Send

Wednesday

John,

Today was the last time I ever went to your house.

You had texted me, asking me to return your things. Your message had said that you would pack up my things and have your mum give them to me when I dropped off your belongings. It was the first message I had gotten from you since yesterday morning. I spent an hour searching my room for any traces of you, only coming across a grey shirt and a pair of your soccer cleats. I had thought you had more things in my room, but apparently this was it.

This was it.

Had you been taking things home when I wasn't looking? Had you known things with us were coming to a close? You had to of. Just last month my room had been filled with your things. Shirts, sweats, shoes, the bracelet that matched my own. Do you still wear that bracelet or did you cut it off? I still wear mine. Its a sad reminder, but it holds so many good memories.

It was noon when I left, your shirt and soccer cleats under my arm. I had gotten into my car, placing your things in the passenger seat. The passenger seat was where you always sat, I never once let you drive my car. Your driving terrified me, you were always speeding. Did you speed to get where we were going faster or did you speed to feel some type of rush? These are the things I want to ask, the things I'll never get the chance to find out the answers to.

I drove to your house, could ting Evey minute that passed. It was thirteen if you were wondering. I had pulled up next to your mum's car, turning my own off and just sitting there. I sat there for fifteen minutes, hands still on the steering wheel as I stared at the white garage door in front of me. The garage door that had been the background of so many pictures. The garage door we had leaned against while your parents took pictures of us an hour before junior prom. Your mum had been nothing but smiles that night, telling us how cute we were and not to have too much fun. As if that were possible. You made me feel alive, every moment with you was exhilarating.

I finally found the courage to grab your things from the passenger seat and get out of my car. I stared at the pathway as I walked to your front door, counting the tiles as they passed beneath my feet. There were nine, nine cracked white tiles leading to your front door. The seventh tile still had splashes of neon paint from our paint fight a few months back. We had been covered from head to toe, our bodies canvases of our imagination. It took me a week to get all of the green paint out of my hair, not that I minded.

I reached your door. The front door was already open so I knocked on the screen door, hoping I wouldn't have to wait long for your mum to come. My wish was granted, your mum coming around the corner just moments later. An apron was around her waist, spots of flour across her smiling face. She had opened the door, ushering me inside. She wrapped me in her arms as soon as the door shut behind me.

It hurt. Not physically, but the thought of this being the last time she would ever hug me hurt.

I had smiled, hugging her back as I told her I was here to get my things. She had pulled back, a sympathetic look on her face. She told me she bad hoped we would last, that you had become a better man since we got together. She said it would be odd not to see me all of the time after all these years and I agreed. It would be weird not seeing this house anymore, not coming over for dinner on Saturday nights as I had been doing since fourth grade. You were my routine.

Once she had handed me the box of my things, I had hugged her once more and headed home. I fought tears the entire drive, a drive that only took ten minutes this time.

I had gone up to my room, shutting the door and emptying the contents of the box on my bed. My Skull Candy headphones. My cherry blossom lotion. Earrings and necklaces. The black party dress I had worn to your sister's wedding. Pictures of us.

So many pictures of us.

Pictures from our trip to the zoo last fall. Pictures from Spring break our sophomore year. Pictures from the road trip we took last summer. Pictures from when we were little. Pictures of every important thing that had happened to us. You had given them all back.

I took the pictures, smoothing them all out before tacking them to my walls. You may not want to remember, but this was my life. I can't remember a time before you, John. You are everything my last consists of, there was never a me without a you.

-Jane