@ Dean Winchester: I can’t tell you who I am, but I adore you. I love every single inch of your messy, beautiful soul and I need you to know. I want to kiss your fingertips and hold you until you don’t feel cold anymore.
Please don't do this to me.
If you can't tell me who you are, can't possibly even send me an ask without it being anonymous, can't let me talk to you or look at your blog, then what's the point of this message?
Maybe you think it'll make me happy knowing that someone, somewhere, secretly - so secret that I can't even be allowed to see your blog - feels this way about me. Maybe you don't know how hopeless this feeling is, constantly trying to move on from a dead romance so I can be allowed to maybe love someone who isn't anonymous, who can show me their face. Maybe you don't know how many times I've been through this, random anonymous messages coming one a month or every other month or once a year or whenever y'all feel like it.
Maybe no one has ever slipped a message you cannot respond to into your inbox saying "I used to know you, back in that life you can never touch again, and you cannot ever touch me, but I love you." Maybe you've never been pulled violently from the present you're finally starting to feel a part of and thrust into your own traumatic past, suddenly hyper-aware of all you've lost and can never get back.
I can never get it back. My family is dead and gone. My love is dead and gone. I am dead and gone.
Don't send me messages that only serve to make you feel better about having reached out. You don't know me. It is ridiculously unlikely that I am the Dean Winchester you knew. You don't love me and I am not a stand-in for the man you loved.
Please. Please don't do this to me.
