dear j

[11]

march 9, 2011

dear j,

 

                it was a week ago when i last wrote you a letter. i realized you didn’t deserve to be written, most especially my feelings for you would only be put into such waste.

                it was so funny how last week i had waited for you for five straight hours. but now, you were waiting for my reply, so desperate i should laugh at you for trying to make things go to the way they should be.

                you make me crazy, j.

                you always did.

--&--

 

march 9, 2012

dear j,

 

                andrew seems to never stop pestering me. i have already told him to go away.

                but today, i haven’t. it’s because he is going to give me something.

                so i wait for him at the café that i first met him—or the first time i truly saw him—sitting down at a vacant table (obviously), the latte i ordered filling my senses. i never order the usual coffee we used to drink anymore, knowing it will only end me in heartbreak, loneliness and agony.

                and there stands andrew at the threshold of the coffee shop, wearing his black jacket, his hair dripping wet from the rain but his piercing hazel eyes gazing straight at me, knocking out the air i’m breathing.

                he is bringing a bag, your bag, and that’s when my curiosity heightens.

                he throws it carefully to me and i catch it in a perfect sync, my lips curving downwards into a frown. i open the bag, only to see it is filled with papers.

                i pull one paper out and that’s when the tears fall down on my face, a dam reopening my eyes, my heart reopened from its wounds. they feel like new scars again and from that day on, i know i will never be able to repair myself from the damage you’ve done, from the broken pieces i have let you done.

                andrew gives me the bag filled with letters.

                your letter. the letters you wrote. for me.

 

forever yours,

a