Sloane, [DISCONTINUED]

̶o̶̶n̶̶e̶

Dear Sloane,                                                                                      12. 21. 13

     Today would be our three-year anniversary. Would be. If we were still together. But we’re not. I'm reminded every time I look at the photos of you that I still have. They’re currently resting against the wall at the foot of my mattress. I took them down, but I couldn’t bear to put them away. Honestly, I look at them a lot. Way more than I should, at least. Who can blame me though? I gave you six years of my life. Even if we were together for only three of them. But all that is gone now.

     You’re gone now.

     I always used to say that I’d write a book about you. I don’t think I’ll ever write it, though. I guess that’s why I’m writing you these letters. I doubt if anyone but me will ever see these, but I just want something to document this. Although, I don’t even know what this is. I guess this is the aftermath. This is what you did to me when you left. Maybe you didn't leave though. Maybe I pushed you away. Scratch that 'maybe'. I know that you left because of me, but it still hurts.

     I used to call you my “freckled fairytale.” Because of the tiny brown specks scattered across your nose and cheeks, that you used to hate so much. And because you were so amazing, so perfect—that you just couldn’t be real. But you are real. I know because if you weren’t real—if you were just a figment of my imagination (like I sometimes wish you were), you wouldn’t have left this gaping hole in my chest. I know you’re real because this pain is real.

     I know you loved me, and I loved you. I still love you Sloane. Even after what I did, I don’t think I’ll ever stop loving you. And just that is enough to send me over the edge. Because what if I love you forever? What if I love you and you come back; that would be the best thing in the world. But what if I love you and you never come back; that would be the worst thing in the world. I think that may even kill me.

     I'm a strong believer that each person only gets real love once in their lifetime (but you know that, I used to tell you all the time that you were it for me). So what if you were it? What if you were my only shot at love? That means I’ll be alone for the rest of my life. But maybe I deserve it after everything.

     But for some reason, the thought that I’ll only ever love you also comforts me. Because I can't imagine ever loving anyone but you. If I try to imagine my wedding, my bride's face always belongs to you. Although once, I had a dream where I was standing at the altar, clad in a tuxedo, ready to tie the knot. The church bells rang and those wide doors opened, revealing you in a wedding dress, a veil covering your face. Only it was't you. When you got to the altar and lifted the veil, there was no face. It was your body and hair, but without any features. It was confusing, staring at a faceless woman that I hoped was you. But then you, or should I say, the faceless woman, turned into a praying mantis and ate me. It's actually pretty funny if you think about it. A praying matis, wearing an embroidered white wedding dress.

     I just can't see myself with anyone else. You, however, you’re going to move on and fall in love with someone else. Get married, have children, grow old. All without me. But it will be okay because you’ll be happy. You’re going to find your one and only. Me, I’ve found, and lost, my one and only.

     You’ve always wanted to move out to the countryside and live in a big house complete with a shiny, red door and white picket fences. Yup, you’re one of those people. You’ll get a dog and have two kids that will run in the yard and play under the sun. Your life will be full laughter and warmth and love. Every year you'll send out a Christmas card with four smiling faces that says, "Happy Holidays!" But Christmas is cold and lonely without you.

     I’ll be sitting alone in my loft that used to be our loft. This place is empty without your laughter to fill the cracks on the hard-wood floors. Without your voice to fill the nooks in every wall. Without your smile to fill the vast ocean of my heart. Yup, the loft sure is empty without you. I'm empty without you.

     This letter is all jumbled up and I normally hate that. But like I said, no one’s going to read them. Like one of your favorite characters once said, “My thoughts are stars I can't fathom into constellations.” Well Sloane, my thoughts are paragraphs I can’t fathom into a letter. But that’s not even half as poetic. It actually sounds horrible compared to the works of John Green. Even if you're not comparing it to his work. I am now disgusted with myself as a writer and glad I won’t be giving these to you. Anyways, it’s 2:57 AM and I’ve reached that point in the night where nothing really matters anymore. I don’t have anything else to say. I’m just numb. I’ve gotten to that point where I don’t care. I want to care, but I don’t. I want to cry or laugh, but I can’t. It all seems so pointless. So I guess I’ll just go to sleep. Even though in the morning, I’ll wake to the same emptiness I’ve felt since the day you left.

     Like I said, my thoughts are jumbled and messy. Kind of like your handwriting that you hate so much. I’m rambling. Stalling. I don’t want to go to sleep because that means I’ll have to wake up. Alone.

     Goodnight Sloane, sweet dreams my darling. I hope you're able to dream, even under the restless city lights.

Love,

Jeremy, the man who will always hopelessly love you