Trust Me. I'm Lying - (SLOWLY EDITING)

Epilogue

Dear Carson,

I don't know why I'm writing this letter. I guess I'm still that hopeless, pathetic romantic who began writing this kind of thing that seems like such a long time ago. I doubt you would even find it since right now my brain is telling me you don't care, telling me you would never go as far as to come looking for this. But I know differently, which scares me. At least, I hope I know better. I'm not sure of many, many things right now.

But that's me being my normal self.

I'm not sure because of you. I've gone from hating to loving you, back to hating, to trusting, to loving, to hating, and now I don't know where I stand. Jess says it hurt me so much because maybe I still love you. But that's the keyword: maybe. How can someone that says they love you hurt you so much? But Jess has always seen the best of people, and I think that's the reason she's with Sebastian still. Me? I have always seen the worst of people, especially you.

You hurt me so much, Carson. Why would you lie? Why would you pretend in front of both of us? It hurt. It sometimes hurts me still. And while I try to tell myself again and again, almost like a mantra, that you don't care, it's even worse. Because I think you do. Some people say there are moments in life that will be forever branded in our memories, and I think your face when I said I hated you, when I left you in the car, will be one of them.

And now I'm crying. And it's your fault. Again. And it makes me hate you —it makes me hate both of us— because it's my fault too.

It was so difficult for me to trust you. The first time, while you began answering back to my dare. And then I had to go through all the slightly awkward/ slightly painful/ slightly annoying part of trying not to hate you again. And I trusted you. Was it my fault? Doesn't it all go back to the same thing? I trusted you once. I trusted you again. And I believe that if someone took my heart out of my chest and danced on it would hurt less than what I went through.

I'd like to tell you I knew it all from the start. That's the thing. The one that probably hurts the most. The one that made me lose part of myself for a while. I didn't know. And when I think about it, all I see is your concealed anger when Danielle was talking to us. That you were angry because of what had made me detest Danielle. It didn't once cross my mind that perhaps it was because she was hanging something over your head. Something that made you hate her. You hid the truth a long way.

That's what still confusing. Did you care? Did you not? Part of me wants to know. Part of me never wants to see you again. I can't forgive you entirely, not really. Because I know that once I start talking to you again the pain will be brought back, and I'll be forced to deal with it one more time. And you know how much I am afraid of pain. You know. Is there even a part of me that you don't know, Carson? Did you care? Do I want to know at this point?

I'm not sure what I'm doing. Right now, it's 3:27 am and Senior Year starts in less than six hours and all I could think about was how my words sound better coming from my hands than from my mouth. I guess this is why I'm writing, so I can remember what it was like to talk to you before anything happened. Before I hated you and before I loved you.

I'm a good liar. I've told you that a million times. I learned to lie for a lot of reasons, and you were one of the few people I never told any lie to. I had been lying so much to myself it almost began to feel like the truth.

But I don't want to that anymore. I love you too much. And I hate you. And I love the colors in your eyes and I love the way you smile when you look at me and the way your hair is so messy and pretty all the time and the way you dress and the way you see your sister and how you're not bitter to her. Or me. I love almost everything about you. And I'm debating if it's stupid for me to still feel that way, even after all this time.

I'm probably going to burn this stupid piece of paper once I finish. I'm holding this stupid blue pen too tight. What I'm trying to get out of my head is this: I'm sorry for, all in all, these two pieces of paper, and everything that is written between them. I'm positively going to burn them. I'm sorry for all the wrong things I've said. I am. Especially these.

Dear Carson. You've made me smile. You've made me cry. You've made me happy. And angry. And sad. And pathetic. And amazing. And loved and wanted and beautiful. You made me feel like I could touch the stars with my hands.

I fell, and I got back up. And I told myself I could, each day for what felt like a long time, and there was a point when I didn't need to tell myself any longer, that I realized that I could do it on my own. You helped me live. You made me fall. And somehow, all of those made me a stronger person than the bitter girl who hesitated in writing a lame letter that she thought would be the worst and most stupid idea of all.

I'm still debating if it was.

Sincerely,

Bells.

***

On the first day of Senior Year, I smile.

I hug Chris and yell as if it was the first time we had seen each other all summer, even though she brought me here today. I let Aiden give me a bone-crushing hug because I had not seen him all summer; he was visiting his grandparents in L.A. I roll my eyes at Sebastian and tell him to go tease Jess, which he does.

On the first day of Senior Year, I have my earbuds on and YOUTH, by Troye Sivan is playing in the background. I smile as I go early to my first class, but my grin fades as I look at a poster plastered on the bulletin board beside my new locker.

I've made a habit of counting time since the beginning of the summer. Since it was what kept me sane for a while. I came to learn that time heals, and it does. It still doesn't keep me from frowning as I notice that the Bonfire is exactly thirty-seven days from now.

I don't think, I turn and head in the opposite direction from which I came.

I pass the double doors, my bag feeling twice as heavy as it did before, the weight of what was inside it doubling. I see the specs of dust in the sun that come pouring from the high windows feel the comfort of shelves and the smell of books. I utter a very rapid hello to the new librarian. I can't blame the confused look she gives me as I nearly run to the back, on the first day of school, barely half an hour after the school year officially started. Even I don't know what I'm doing.

But I do, I have always done. As if I had been running and counting and waiting for this exact point in time all through summer since Mr. Langley gave me the white piece of paper and an open envelope, almost three months ago. Through laughs and tears and joy and heartbreak.

Because when I round the corner I came to know all too well almost a year ago, he's already there, the tattered book in his hand, his letter in the other.

I take out mine. And smile at him.

THE END.