I never wrote properly about you. I need to be free, I need to take the chains off that binds me to you. I need to speak of it. Because, even if I'm not dying to say it, keeping it in has unknowingly afflicted me.
We never were actually an official, thing— we just loved each other insanely. Or, I'd like to think so. I was afraid you loved me a lot more than I loved you— but I doubted that so much every time you were away. We spent most of our 'almost something' apart. But still, I was loyal to you. It was irrational, we were irrational. We jumped into our 'relationship' so fast, what was it that made us do this? Were we both just so needy of love and affection, was this why? You left me gifts and letters, and you made me feel so special. But, you were always away— I went away somewhere along the lines too.
Nonetheless, I still gushed about you. I would tell all my friends and I was so hopelessly infatuated. But, I started to waver. I was in a horrible place, and I think what I thought was true. How could you love me when you left me so often? How could I love you when we barely knew anything about each other?
I was so desperate, so frustrated, and I lost faith. Sure enough, I confronted you about it, and you told me it was my choice. I knew you didn't love me then, and I knew I never loved you either. Before we could even talk, you left. Without a trace.
I think I was ungrateful towards you. I do. Your words were so beautiful— everything you told me made my heart jump, and you truly did have my heart. I wanted to call you mine, greedily. But, this never happened. You left. You left without a goodbye and I think you believed it was best. You deactivated and left.
I felt guilty for the longest, and I wished for you just to say goodbye— to not leave my hanging like this. No matter what, I don't know how to take your memory off. Anyone who has the same face as you— I can't.
I wonder if you ever wonder about me. I wonder if you ever wanted to leave a message, to just say something because you missed me like I missed you. I realize that you left or a reason, a reason which I know from the night you confessed to me.
I will never look at Christmas or New Years in the same way.
But this is goodbye. And I want to tell you I have your confession saved. This isn't the last letter— I was kidding. I'm being rushed.