Love, Aria

A Letter From the Desk of Aria Hall

I returned home from Berkeley a month ago today.

    This past month has been full of the worst thoughts of my life. The worst thoughts and feelings towards myself and towards others that I have ever experienced.

    Because, despite everything, I blame myself.

    Or, rather, blamed. I blamed myself.

    I could have avoided it all. I could have remembered what it was like during the bad times instead of what it was like during the good. I was weak, and stupid, and hormonal...and I let all that get the better of me. I could have prevented everything. I could have prevented this relapse, this error in judgement. All I had to do was say no.

    "Do you want to go to dinner with me tonight?"

    "No."

    Simple. One word. One choice. One deciding factor.

    And it's so much worse this time.

    Before, he at least tried to be civil towards me after the breakup. He tried to make it work as friends. I didn't want that, I didn't want any of that, until I wanted too much.

    We dated again. For five days.

    And now it's over. It's completely over.

    All those years, wasted on someone whose name I will never speak aloud. All those years wasted on someone who I wish I had never met. I wish I had never met him, never spoken to him, never kissed him. Because I have memories of times that are wonderful, and times that are terrible, and it's taken all of my willpower not to just let the good times alone make me feel like the antagonist.

    But worse than the memories are the pictures.

    Memories allow an image to fade, a face to become a blur, an event to become something faintly remembered. But looking at a picture, and remembering the feelings and the love associated with someone in that moment...that's when it hurts the most. That's when it hurts to breathe, when your breath stops in your chest and you feel like the wind was just knocked out of you. When your heart sinks and you can physically feel it become sore inside of you. When the tears want to prick at your eyes but they don't quite make it, they don't quite come, and you're left feeling like a shell of a person whose organs are failing them.

    Worse than the pictures are the letters.

    "You're the most amazing, incredible person I've ever met and I can't believe that I actually get to call you mine."
    It's so incredibly self-destructive to read those letters again, to relive those letters. And yet I did it, every day for almost a month. I've practically memorized them, each word telling me how beautiful and wanted I was.

    Was.

    I should be able to get over him immediately. He was terrible, he cheated on me, he's such a jerk. And yet deep down, I don't think of any of that. On the surface, that's what I convey; that I'm angry and betrayed by this man who professed to love me. But on the inside, in the thoughts that I don't tell anyone else, I don't feel anger; I feel grief. I mourn for our relationship and a small part of me wants it back.

    A small part that I quickly suppress.

    There are so many things I want to put in this letter. I'm writing it all down to get it out of me, to let someone else know what I feel. Someone else who can't respond, because that someone else will simply be a locked drawer in my dresser.

    I just needed to get the thoughts out of me. Out of my body and onto paper, onto something that will be forgiving and loving and not tell me my feelings are stupid or that I should hate him for everything he did to me. Something that will let me rant and rave and cry onto it, and will still be there, waiting to hear more, without any words of comfort. Because to be quite honest, comfort is overrated. Comfort isn't something I need right now.

    What I really need is to forget.

    Forget about the life we could have shared, the way he made me laugh and smile and the way I could be myself around him like no one else. The way he made my heart flutter simply by smiling, his crooked little half-smile that he made when he thought he was being funny. The way he held my hand and made me feel like the entire world was going to be okay, that nothing would ever hurt me.

    It's funny how our safe havens often become the very thing they try to protect us from.

    I'll be alright, eventually. I'll be able to look at an old picture and not want to rip it to shreds just to keep myself from having to look at it. I'll be able to see his name without wanting to break down in tears. I'll be able to forgive him for everything he did. I'll be able to forgive myself for going back.

    Eventually, I'll love someone again.

    I'm truly hoping that it will first be myself.

This chapter is honestly here because I needed to write it for myself, so I hope you guys enjoyed it. Writing has a way of clearing my mind and conscience, and I just hope that it was able to impact you in some way. It's definitely a chapter that shows the real pain that Aria is going through, underneath the surface of "OMG he cheated on me, what a douche!" and shows that breakups can be emotionally scarring and create feelings of guilt even for the person who, by the general public, would be considered the victim in the situation.

Alright no more sap.

Epilogue will be up tomorrow (hopefully, if not then Friday!)

-Katherine