A Little Book of One-Shots

Letter to Him

Dear Darling,

I’m writing this letter because…

Well, I don’t really know. I think it’s because, to put it simply, I miss you. But I think that’s too simple.

I’ve never missed someone quite as much as I miss you. You’re still alive – for all I know, you could be down at Spar right now. I’ve lost dozens of people. Some of them have died, but most of them have simply… Drifted away, I suppose. But you know that, don’t you?

I like to reminisce. A lot. About everything. All the nights we spent under the stars. The Subways we fed to that dog of yours while hiding under trees up the Cavehill. I don’t know why we were hiding, but maybe you know more than me. I like to think that. That you’ll always know more than me; that when I walk into the unknown, you’ll be watching over me, all-knowing.

I still dream. I still can’t sleep. I still go for those walks in the dead of night, but I always end up looking for you somehow. I never find you. Yet, despite the futility, I still search for you and get my hopes up, only to have them crushed.

I wonder a fair bit, too. I wonder if you still buy two Subways, though I’m not there and there’s only one of you. I wonder if you lie on that old blanket on a rooftop at night, or have went back to just lying on the cold, hard ground (I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist). I wonder if you loved me as much as I love you. I think you might’ve noticed the past tense there. I know you don’t love me anymore, because if you love me, you never would have left.

And then I wonder where you are. You could be back in Poland, anywhere in America – or right here in Northern Ireland. Maybe here in Belfast. Maybe just down the road from me. Maybe outside my window right now, just checking to make sure I’m okay. And I’ll walk past the window and notice you, I’ll run down stairs and throw open the door. You’ll walk up to me and kiss me and tell me you’ll never leave again.

I just looked outside. You weren’t there.

I think I know why I’m writing this letter now. I want you to see, to know, how much you’ve managed to hurt me. But also that I’m moving on. I don’t want to be like Bella, pining for the guy I love. I don’t see this as giving up, more as letting go. Ah, screw that. We both know I’m giving up. Giving up on you. Because I know you’ll never let me see you again, that you have to do what you think is best for me. I can promise you, though, that whatever it is you’re doing, it’s one of the worst things you can do.

Maybe you want me to give up. Maybe that was your grand plan all along. I don’t know. I probably never will. So I’m just going to leave this note on my windowsill outside. If it’s gone in the morning, I’ll know you’ll have read this and understood. Maybe even agreed, proving me right. And if it’s still here, I’ll know you don’t give a flying fuck about me, that you don’t even care anymore, that I was nothing more than a project, a toy, for you to pass your time with.

I’m still debating whether or not to leave that picture of us outside too. It’s a brilliant picture, one of the few I look good in. Problem is, when I look at it, it hurts like hell. I’m trying to live by the whole theory of ‘Don’t cry because it’s over, laugh because it happened’ but it’s hard, you know? I think you’re still out there and we could easily go back to the way things are. I think I’m refusing to acknowledge the fact that it’s over.

You know what? Even as I’m writing this, I’m laughing and crying. Crying because this is it. Whatever happens tonight determines the rest of my life. This could all be over while I sleep, if I manage to sleep at all. Laughing because I’m remembering everything we did and all the fun we had. And because I know all this is a lie. Well, a bit of it. I’ll never be able to stop loving you.

It’s a bitter laugh.

Good luck, darling. Life’s a long, hard road, but you gotta deal with it or else it’ll swallow you whole.

Love,

Tygrys.