Dear Rose,
When I think of us, I see a kaleidoscope of memories. Delicate. Intricate. Unpredictable. Turbulent. They begin gentle and light, but eventually turn dismal. Like a thunderstorm rolling in after a bright summer day. Like the tales within the pages of so many of your favourite tragedies.
Isn't it funny, how often reality imitates fiction?
I remember it all. The fleeting looks and the stolen kisses and the inside jokes. The loud laughter and us dancing around my apartment together, half naked, at 1 a.m. The secrets I whispered to you as we lay in the grass counting stars– secrets you must have forgotten by now.
We never stood a chance, did we? You knew it, I knew it, the universe knew it too. Even then, I dared to hope that in the end, it would be you and I. Yes, it hurt every time you innocently broke my heart, but I still hoped. I see it now; how blind I'd been– dreaming of being adored like gold and wondering why I tarnished after you left me in silver.
It's okay though. We were both just a bunch of foolish kids then– me, the dreamy eyed hopeless romantic, and you, Rose, the heartbreaker- here one moment and gone the next. Neither of us really knew how to love right. It's okay, because for a little bit, I had you. You were all mine, and I was surely yours.
The little world we had created then may not have been perfect, but gods above, it was all our own.
It's been so long, and I don't know where you are. One would think the thought of you would have stopped plaguing me by now. In fact, if I told anyone of this but you, they would say how I am a yearning mess, still so lost, still so naïve.
It's been years, and yet it doesn't matter because I still miss you the same.
How many times do you think a heart can break, Rose? For the same person? For the same wish?
As many times as the number of nights you spend locked away in your own head silently loving them, I've come to realize. I have spent countless on you, and for that, I forgive myself.
Maybe one day, when we're both different people, we will meet again. As characters in a different story, in a parallel world. Maybe then, you will be better for me, and I for you. Maybe then, we will get it right.
But for now, I hope this letter never finds you.
With love, still,
Elliot
YOU ARE READING
First Drafts - An Ensemble
PuisiA collection of my own written pieces- ranging from poetry written with an unhealthy mindset to short stories packed with nostalgia to excerpts, drabbles or spin-offs based off stories or roleplays of mine that are in progress.
