Not Yours But Forever (Draft)

Part 2. THE LETTER.

Mia,

I hate you. Would these words be too harsh to start my letter with? I'm not so sure they aren't true anymore. I thought about writing you so often that over time I realized I don't have much to say. Like, who are you, anyway? I don't know you and it stopped scaring me a long time ago. It still hurts though. It hurts so much, Mia.

Remember in the second grade you told me you'd never have a boyfriend because all boys would fall for me? Would like me "just like any person likes the stars"? "How can you not like the stars?" you'd ask me, "It's impossible." I'd laugh and call you a weirdo. I believed you, though. Not about being a hot-date girl, of course, but about the thing with the stars. You said it so surely that I didn't question your words, not for a single second. You have this way with everything, really. Whatever you say, it has to be the truth or it will be because you said it. Well Mia, recently I found someone who doesn't like the stars. He says they're cold, indifferent, and pointless. You see, the world doesn't care about your truth, it doesn't listen. It doesn't fucking work that way. You adjust, the world doesn't.

Okay, now we are getting to the hard part. I think it's my duty to say what I'm about to say to you, even if I know you'll probably skip it. But we were friends once, and friends do this annoying thing of being assholes to each other. Saying what no one else will say to you because it hurts and they'd rather not bother. Anyway. I'm gonna just get to it, okay?

I'm sorry your parents died, Mia. I am sorry, and I've been sorry for the last three years, that they aren't here. I know you loved them so much. Remember that day your dad got you a bicycle? Like, a real, 21-speed-pedals-and-a-horn bicycle? It wasn't even your birthday. Your dad appeared at your door with this badass yellow fellow completely out of the blue, just because he overheard us talking about bicycles that morning.

You were the queen of our neighborhood; every kid looked at you like you just won a fucking Oscar. I felt that way too. If only you knew how much I envied you. Though maybe you did know, and that was the reason every time we came for a walk you asked me to ride it. "My feet hurt," you'd say, pushing your bike to my side. To my defense, I genuinely thought I was helping you and your tired feet out by riding your bike.

Every time your dad played hide and seek with us, he completely forgot about dinner. Your mom would wait until he closed his eyes again and started counting, then she'd approach him with a cup of coffee and put it under his nose, waving the smell to him with her hand. He'd follow her and the smell into the kitchen. We'd groan and follow his lead. It was impossible to resist your mom, and the truth is, we didn't really want to.

You might ask why the fuck I brought it all up. You might think I'm cruel or that I want to hurt you like you hurt me. But that's not true. Things like this, your memories, they aren't supposed to kill you. They're supposed to heal the bleeding wounds. I'm not sure how it works, but I know the only thing that eventually saves you is what hurts you the most. Don't forget those feelings; the feeling of being loved, having a friend, and riding your bike and laughing until your cheeks hurt. You had all that, and you know what that means? It means you're able to have it all again. Just please, hurry up and get ready for it, okay?

I thought this would be some kind of a hateful letter, with me saying you're a bitch and cursing your life and the lives of your future kids for stealing my boyfriend. And now I cry and feel sorry. I wish I'd said those things to you sooner. I just... You just wouldn't let me, you know? You kept pushing me away, as if my presence was burning your skin. You made me think I'd be doing a good thing if I left you. I wonder, did you actually want to let me go after all?

I missed you. I missed you so fucking much. And I felt like a piece of shit and missed you even more 'cause you were hurting and I wasn't there for you. It's a strange feeling, like, I wasn't the one who needed support, obviously, but at the same time, I was dying for you to care about me, and I felt bad for thinking only about myself and how badly you hurt me. When you were the one who needed my help.

But now some time has passed. I don't want to be a bitch, but let's talk about my problems?

I won't say much about what had happened to me after I left you. Let's just say, I was broken. I started swearing, as you can see. That's when I met Brice. He helped me. He told me he loved me on our second date. I know, I know, I wasn't that stupid to believe him, but he was kind and supportive, so anyway. We kept dating. The first time we had sex was brilliant, although it lasted for about three minutes. There was a clock on the wall in his room, right above us, so I kinda knew the exact time it had all taken. Damn clock. Brice said it was old-school and badass, and I say it's just garbage. By the way, I just realized—you know the clock I'm talking about. After all, you're Brice's girl now, so you would've already seen the clock by now, right? Do you get the creeps when it starts telling time too? Making that hoarse, creepy sound, like someone might be dying? Shit, I guess we're coming to the I-hate-you-fucking-bitch part.

Okay, so the thing with Brice is that I love him. For being there for me when you weren't. For telling me the stars are fucking ugly when it felt like every little star was there to remind me of you, and there are fucking billions of them in the sky, all right? He told me you were a bitch for treating me the way you did, and I chose to believe him. It was easy to believe a guy who kissed you like you were something—softly and with great care. Care, Mia. That's something you chose to kill in yourself and take away from me altogether.

I have so many questions. Why Brice? When did you start feeling again anyway? Why didn't you tell me? How the fuck did he agree to it? Do you hate me? Because if you don't, I have no fucking idea how you could do this to me.

Brice said you both loved me and wanted me to understand and "be cool with it." Honestly I don't understand shit. But at this point, it doesn't matter.

I won't wish you two happiness or good life together, or some other bullshit. I'm not that cliche. So that would be it. It was nice to pour this all out on paper. It seems like at least one of us deserved a chance to understand another, and I guess I'm just better at explaining things.

Not yours but forever,

Hope.