Letters to her, us and our abstract love

The last one (I hope)

I saw you.

I saw you and I didn't feel a million birdies in my belly.

I saw you and I wasn't desperate to hug you and kiss you.

I saw you and, for the first time in a long time, I felt free: I felt like I could breathe without having to hold your hand

And now I'm writing this without choking on my sobs and actually thinking about the things I'm writing.

We talked. More like you talked while I coldly stare at you pouring your heart on my hands. The me that loved you with all her hope wanted to kiss your lips; the me that chose herself cruelly smiled and told you she wasn't in love with you anymore.

And she almost saw the pieces of your heart shattering in your eyes. And she almost gave in because it felt like something she owed to you. But she didn't: she had promised herself she would be real and she would be as gentle as a her wounded heart allowed her to be with you.

She told you she was sorry. But I'm not. I'm almost happy.

In a week, I've grown a little bit more. Now I see you as part of my past, even though I still wish to see your incoming texts. Not because I want to kiss you. I just want to keep on being your friend because you need a good friend. But I won't text you first. Not anymore. Simply because I don't need you and because I respect your wishes and your healing process. You have the certainty that I don't feel anything anymore. That should help a little.

Maybe someday I'll read you my letters, I feel like if you read them you would see how much I loved you. You would see the potential we had. The potential you still have in within yourself. Just like the helped me, they might help you, too.

I said I wouldn't survive you, amor. But here I am, as alive as I have never felt. You'll get to feel the same way. After all, we are kinda the same person

That's all I have to say. Thanks for the insecurity. I've learned a lot.

Te sobreviví.