Letters You'll Never Read {Charmie} (RE-WRITE)

01/02/xx ⟡

I REMEMBER EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU. I remember when you used to look at me with a light in your eyes. When your smile alone could make me feel like there was a tiny sun in my chest, warm, and bright, and burning me from the inside out with a feeling so good and indescribable that I chose to do anything about it. I never wanted to extinguish the feeling you gave me; even if it threatened to burn me alive.

I felt incandescent, ablaze and alive, with your love; like some luminous being set up in the sky to light the night.

I remember being so unbelievably free and so myself, no matter the place, because I was with you. That was all that I needed, back then.

Things are different now, though. And I can't blame anyone but my own wrong doing for that. You don't look at me the same. You look at me as if you're afraid. As if you don't want to get too close, as if your touch might shatter all that is my being and crumble in your well worn hands the walls I tried so very hard to put back up when I said goodbye to Crema; and by extension, Elio—and by extension, Oliver.

And eventually, you.

Your smile doesn't reach your eyes anymore, and at some point you snuffed out the fire you set in my chest. It's silly to think that you killed the light within me because I let myself be weak enough to mutter that maybe, maybe I loved you. That I did love you. That it hurt, to love you, because we both knew that you had an entire existence outside of me, that summer, and all that we built from the ground up.

I hadn't meant to say it so soon.

I hadn't meant to say it at all.

I had a lapse in judgment, and going by your reaction, well. I shouldn't have let myself even begin to believe that what I felt for you was anything other than platonic.

Because we were buddies. Pals,  friends, colleagues, co stars. Anything but what I thought we were.

And you...you have everything to go back to. A wife, kids, a happy family. You've got everything a man like you could ever need. You live in leisure and love and comfort.  That's everything a man like you could ever want out of life.

What do I have?

I have a tiny, cramped apartment, I spend all my free time in because I can't seem to get over you. Because this tiny, cramped apartment is the only constant in my life. Because whenever I go out my thoughts travel to you or something you said or something you did.

I have the memory of a love that wasn't mine to romanticize.

Sometimes, sometimes, it's so bad I forget to take care of myself. When's the last time I got out of bed? When's the last time I ate a decent meal, or, talked to my mom? Did I shower, this week? Wash my face? Brush my teeth? Speak to anyone at all?

And my parents are worried because, Are you coming to visit soon? Because, Are you going to bring Armie with you again?

How am I supposed to reply? My mother always made sure to teach me what was right from what was wrong, but suddenly I can't distinguish between the two. Because when's the last time I drank anything that didn't make me vomit in the morning? When did I settle for treating my body like I had another one to spare?

I fell so deep and so fast for you, but never prepared myself for the impact I'd make with the ground when it was over. And sometimes I think, What if I wasn't here at all? And I know, it's not right. I know it's not like me to feel these things, and to ponder these types of questions, but after you I've never felt so alien to myself.

Of course that doesn't feel right, to say that, because I don't want to die. I'm terrified of death, and what that means, and who it'd hurt. I'm terrified of not knowing, and knowing, and thinking about what it means to know and not know. I'm terrified of the feeling, but also the actions I would have to take, the steps I'd have to climb to get to a place I'm not sure exists and wants me.

I just want to not be here. To sleep, for a little while and give my bones a rest. Give my brain some time to forget. To prick my finger on a spindle and pray like hell that my Prince Charming never arrives, or maybe that I never even met him in the first place. I think I deserve rest, for all I have to endure in my silence. For all I have to put it with, for all I have to see and witness and lie bare to.

Sad, isn't it? That I think like this every time I'm out there, outside of the comfort and constant of my tiny cramped apartment, when I make an appearance and shine, shine, shine?

...
I'm rambling again. But how could I not? I always do. I prepare what I have to say all the time, and yet, I still seem to lose all sense of self and shoot off at the mouth.

You know, you told me that it would be different. That we wouldn't end like Elio and Oliver because I wouldn't be left crying in the end. Because we'd still see each other. Because, they loved each other. And us? Well....we were us. We weren't like them.

You wanted to believe that so bad, didn't you?

It's hard to believe you were wrong, because you were never wrong, and I never knew you to make such big errors in your thinking. But this? You dropped the ball on this one, buddy. You fumbled, and took everything in your way down with you.  You really did it this time, didn't you, Armie?

...
What am I trying to say? I'm not sure anymore. I forgot, or simply pushed it so far back in my mind that I can't think of it. They say you tend to block out the things that hurt you the most, but why is it that I relive our time together every waking day? Why can't I block you out? Are they wrong, or is there something worse than this hurt to forget about? Is there more to come? Can I handle what's next?

I'm sorry. For being weak. For falling in love. For telling you too soon. For telling you at all. Because maybe we wouldn't be here if I hadn't said anything.

And what a life that would be. Me and you and a Crema sized void between us, forever. Pushing, and pulling, and screaming for attention. Were we doomed from the start? Was the shape of you, large and eccentric and alive, bursting through my piano lesson door, the red herring I so stupidly ignored and indulged in? Was that my warning, my alarm bell?

I should have known better.

And so what if I had kept my hearts truths a secret for longer? What would become of us? Ah, I know. I'd forever be the kid who stuck too close and should have let go a long time ago. And you? The movie star who did one small movie and had a life to return to. We'd text every now and again and I'd see you at events—chat, smile, reminisce. We won't talk about Call me or Crema or the room we used to share, and we'll stay away from all the things we'd said and done in private.
...
Sometimes I would prefer that.

I know you, though. Maybe better than you know you. And I know that, if you were reading this? You'd tell me that I'm wrong, that I shouldn't be sorry. That it was your fault, all your fault, for letting things get so out of hand. You'd probably hold my face and tell me to blame you, to fault you for everything that's gone wrong between us.

I'm older, you'd say. I should have seen it coming. I should have known.

But you're not reading this. And we both know that, to some extent, I should be sorry.
I ruined so much.