Open Letter #25

Dear——,

My feelings for you are fading. I noticed when I was no longer hanging on your every word, when I could go for days without talking to you and not worrying—or even noticing—that I hadn’t. And that makes me truly happy. It’s what I’ve wanted for so long, after having all these tiresome circles to run around. But—yes, there is always a horrid contradiction—I can’t help the wash of disappointment I feel whenever we do speak. Because there was something there. Unspeakable and lingering, a quiet comfort of sorts. And I know in my gut that there was potential for greatness between us.

But it’s gone now. Almost.

Did you feel it, too? If so, will you regret it? I certainly will. Life’s too short for regrets, people say. Foolishness, I think. And because I’m a glutton for punishment I believe in making as many regrets as you possibly can, life is built upon them. Because only then do you know the inadequacies of your own self—and then grow. Learn from the missed chances and the cowardice and the stupidity. But this is a discussion for another time, perhaps between you and I, during a night spent drinking on lonely rooftops and cursing at stars.

Yes, I will thoroughly regret the cracked glass that is now us. It’s irreparable, really, but that’s okay. I don’t particularly want to fix it. It’s the scar left from me being as I was… and not being enough for you. I wasn’t enough to evoke the needed emotion to spring you into action, neither was I able to coax anything more than vague replies and ambiguous grins. The effort wasn’t wasted, however. And I hold no ill feelings. I’m not what you wanted—and that’s perfectly okay. I’m glad we were still able to maintain a relationship, even if it isn’t the sort I initially wanted.

It’s still fun—in an awful, bittersweet way. The sparks are gone now. Well, almost. They’re already out the door at least, lingering by the front mat and glimpsing back a few more times to extend the hurt as much as possible. Sadistic things. But I’ve been in this position enough times to know that given enough time, they’ll be replaced by the deep settlement of understanding and passing twinges of grief. The kind painful enough to turn me idle when alone and make me grimace while in company.

And yet, I’m happy for it all the same. Because that’s familiar territory. Easy to tread, easier to live through.

I know I can handle it.

—N. Rinth

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