Jazzmyne's Letters Were Never Meant To Be Read

I Like To Think I Hate Your Eyes

Dear Silver Eyes, 

I know your name is Jack, but this nickname has been stuck in my head the first time I approached you in the library. I think it engraved itself on my mind the moment you looked up and pierced me with those eyes, leaving me in pure, utter shock. Honestly, meeting you was how I found my intense dislike to surprises.  

It's been months since the last time I wrote a letter. It's also been months since I've met you. I'll never tell you this but I'm glad that I disturbed you that day. You were annoyed, of course. I really don't know if it's some weird sense of propriety that made you continue talking to me, but I guess at this point I'm too glad to care, not that I'll ever tell you this in real life.

Because it scares me.

You scare me.

You're too bright, yet thorny with your shit-eating grins and scoffs. You play video games on one hand and unironically read Orwell on the other. You easily deflect my taunts yet look at me with tender eyes for every crack that slithers to the surface. 

Somehow, you always mend me with those eyes. 

They're not really silver actually, but I think it's the closest color to it. You have weird eyes. They honestly remind me of molten storms, of harsh turbulence, of crescents on the moon.

 You like to make illustrations out of misery. In some absurd way, you meld your optimism in your dark comedy. I don't understand it, or you, for that matter. I used to delusion myself into thinking that I am a paradox, an enigma way above others. But maybe that's really you, maybe that's really, truly what I've always been looking for. 

You make me believe in moments, in just believing and aspiring and living for one's self. You don't like people knowing of your idealism, but you know it just oozes out of you. The people around you are afflicted by it. It makes us hope for you, for all the endless light in you to persist, unrelenting, amidst the formidable pessimism of our time. You make me want to glow and I hate that. I love that. 

I think...I probably am, I don't know...I can't, not out loud. I think it'll hurt too much to do so. I mean, you probably already know since you've always said I wear my heart on my sleeves. I had told you I'd never wear sleeves and freeze to death if you ever say that again.

You know, I hope you find someone worthy of you.

At the same time, I hope you also never find someone worthy of you, at least not until I've gotten rid of this nasty feelings myself, because I know that person would never, could never, be me. 

Fuck this shit, 

Jazzmyne