Dear __,

When I write, I struggle to seem less bitter. My attempts at sweetening up my writing can be best compared to when you pour too much sugar into your morning coffee, only to taste it and realize that you mistook salt for sugar. Again. I aim to be optimistic, I really do. But it’s difficult when I’ve been watering the same dead plant that’s been sitting on my nightstand for two years straight. I can’t let go of the hope that it will magically spring to life one day.

I’ve been trying to distract myself from what happened, pretending that I have the mental strength to let go and move on, but I’ve never been good at that. I’m always the person who overstays their welcome and doesn’t notice until they’re the last to leave, which might be why I don’t get invited to very many parties.

That explains why you were the rockstar in high school and I was more of a wallflower. I was the one who was watching everybody’s lives happen, never actually participating in the excitement of the moment. I didn’t entirely mind watching, it just gets old after a while. And lonely.

I don’t like to think about the past very often. Some things are too far gone, and not worth reopening old wounds over. I’d like to say that my wounds have healed, but then I’d be lying. And I don’t want to lie to you.

You, on the other hand, continue to speak deceit. Lie after lie slide off your tongue like silk, and I will never be able to comprehend how you can lie to someone who has been there for you through so much.

You said you missed me, that you couldn’t wait to see me. You said that we were okay.

But I know you, and I know that you’re lying when your words do not match your actions.

I can honestly that I’ve accepted the apology that I know will never escape your lips. I know that you will never truly be sorry for hurting me, because you repeatedly do so.

I’ve realized that I won’t be getting closure, so the best thing for me was to cut my hair and remove myself from the situation.

Again, I’m searching for the strength to let go. Letting go is hard when you never had anything to fully grasp in the first place. Letting go means an ending, which means you must have had a beginning and a middle to go with that, and we never had those things. All we ever had was a blurred line between “just friends” and something more than that. That, and too much to drink.

It doesn’t help that every time I try to let go, you keep coming back.

A little over a year ago, I asked you to do a simple task- look in the mirror and tell me who you were. I’ll ask you another question- why do you keep wasting my time?

Once upon a time, you told me that if you were to date a girl, you’d date me. Another silky smooth lie.

I wish I had a watch that would tell me when our timing is right, since we always seem to be off. Maybe we can blame it on that pesky two-hour time difference.

They say that distance makes the heart grow fonder. Makes sense, since I spent so much free time calculating the distance (1,345.2 miles) and the number of days (121) between us.

You built me up with hope the same way a wave forms- slowly at first, but with great strength, it quickly grows into something more. Then it all collapses, folding into itself without a moment’s notice.

I remember last year, when you completely cut me off from your life. I watched you pack up all your things and leave without saying good-bye or giving it a second thought. I don’t know if I could handle a repeat of that.

Actually, I probably could. I’ve endured nearly two years of stares that last too long for us to be “just friends” and tension between us so thick that you could cut it with a knife.

I’ve been watering this dead plant long enough, I think it’s time I throw it out. I can only hope that you won’t stop me when I take it to the curb this time. Don't worry about getting back to me this time.

Sincerely, Chloe Alverson