DEARĀ MON ĆTOILE,
⧠° ļ½”āā.Ā though i tried to resist, i still want it all.
Iād like to think that I have some sense of self-restraint when it comes to you; which is precisely why Iām keeping this letter tucked between the pages of Oscar Wilde and out of sight once I finish writing it, just to resist the urge of sending it when I knowĀ itāll likely end up making me look like even moreĀ of a knob head in the long run.Ā But-- maybe thatās notĀ self-restraint at all, is it? Maybe itās weakness. Because I know reading this letter would evoke some sort of response from you, and well-- fuck. Thatās scary, innit? Keeping things tucked away for years-- even from you, you who knows literally everyĀ double-edged sword of a secret that Iāve collected and kept quiet for however long-- only to make myself vulnerable for you all over again, in a much more terrifying way than just slivers of skin and whispers of fear. This feels a lot bigger than that -- a lot more loaded. And my chest hurtsĀ from it, almost.Ā
I love you.
Itās almost scary how easyĀ that was to write just now, given my deep-seeded refusal to mumble it aloud at any point up until now. But the funny thing is ( funny or sad, depending on how you choose to look at it, I suppose ), this isnātĀ the first time Iāve written those three particular words down. The margins of my secondary school notebooks are all littered with scribbles of the sameĀ fuckingĀ three-word cliche, written in place of notes and reminders, and taking up all of the blank space in between scribbled swirls of your name and-- fuckĀ thatās pathetic, innit? Probably about as pathetically cliche as when I first took a pen and scratched the sentiment out; right after our first time together -- when Iād strip myself bare for you in more ways than one. And I was shaking-- fuck, I was shakingĀ from the vulnerability of it all. And you just...you held me; whispered words of reassurance in my ear, and never onceĀ lessened your grip on my hand. I remember feeling those words clawing away at my chest long after youād fallen asleep, leaving me to my own thoughts. They were caught in my throat, a knot slowly forming around each and every syllable as I tried desperatelyĀ to swallow it back. The urge to blurt the phrase out didnāt settle until Iād located a pen, scribbling out the words against the palm of my hand in a haste, breathing slowing down to a steady rhythm soon after.Ā
I woke up the next morning with ink smeared into my skin, and my heart more full than Iād felt it been in a while. But, as youāre probably well aware, I never repeated those words to you. I bit it back down for another full year, and then I left. I was stupidĀ and scaredĀ and I left. And I know youāve forgiven me for all of this shit-- but I still donāt think Iāve quite forgiven myself; not when your trust is no longer something Iām privileged to keep, not when itās something Iāll likely never be able to obtain from you again.
And you wanna know what the most fuckedĀ up thing about me writing this is?Ā I donāt know if Iāll ever end up saying any of this to you-- dunno if youād even believeĀ me if I did. But this-- this is something, innit? Because Iām not just-- Iām not just doodling down silly phrases that I hardly know the meaning of. Iām accepting it. Iām accepting the fact that Iām in love with you, even now, and that Iāve fucked it all up. Still trying not to hope for too much, though-- mājust tiptoeing all along the edges of whatever it is weāve managed to establish at this point, and trying not to hold out for more. I still want it, though. Fuck-- I want allĀ of it, even. And holy shitĀ is that terrifying.
signed, Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā a Ā c o w a r d.














