I woke up this morning and realized I had sprouted roots.
It was then that I knew I needed to write this letter, though I know you may not need to receive it and you probably should not even read it.
But I also know what you would say were I to decide to be dishonest with myself on account of you.
We've been silent for quite a while now, haven't we? And I don't mean the kind of silent where we say nothing at all to one another. But the kind of silent where we say absolutely everything except for what we really mean. I don't have to explain this to you- you know exactly what I'm talking about. After all, you've practically perfected the concept of over-sharing in an understated manner. Your stories are built upon it. That, and a deep, insatiable hunger for honesty.
It is the knowledge of that hunger which leads me to this: My dear, I'm afraid I have a confession to make; a confession and a warning.
My confession is that I have received the advances of a man who does not see the me that you called out so long ago. I know that hearing this will break your heart, and knowing that breaks mine. Only, please do not think me falling under the curse of the fairer sex when I speak of my emotion over this. I know the real reason it pains you, I am not a sentimental fool.
You always longed for that person you found in me to stay, even after you had to leave. I know this because I see the way that you look for her, still- hoping no one will take notice. But I have.
She made a leaver out of you because you could not contain her. And though it killed you, you rejoiced in it simply because she exists. So I know that you will think her threatened because this man, though well-intentioned, has no idea where to look for her. And I fear you may be correct.
But I apologize. I had promised two things and have found myself carried away with the former, while the latter is the much more important matter. My confession is that he has asked for my heart; my warning is that I have not yet given it to him. I regret deeply that he does not know this, nor would he ever know why. Your name does not leave my lips. He's a good man- what most would die to catch the eye of- and that's what makes knowing I do not love him so difficult. Also, knowing that he loves me. At least, he loves the me he believes he has found.
And though I catch myself growing more and more fond of him everyday, you know why he cannot ever have my heart. You know better than anyone. And because of this, you know why I am writing this letter. And why I'm not.
Because, darling, I would be willing to wait, if I honestly believed you would ever arrive. But you've staked too much of who you want to be known as on not knowing who you are. And I'm sorry to say, but I've mostly lost my taste for masochism.
So this is my confession to you- a confession and a warning- rather than the sort of ill-fated request it may sound like to an uninformed reader. And may it serve as nothing more than an admission of the fact that if you were to say any word, give any motion in the direction of the one you uncovered and have tried, unsuccessfully, to prove you do not long for, she would reappear and without hesitation remind you of everything you have missed. But I know better than to ask of you what you do not know how to give.
Anything more I could say, you already know. For nothing has changed.