The Letter He'll Never Get to Read

~o.O.o~


You,

This would definitely look pathetic to you—or to anyone who would read this. But guess what? I don't care anymore. I learn from my mistakes. I cared before, and where did it get me? Here in my College Chemistry class listening to songs I cannot hear, and writing this letter you'll never get to read.

I cannot bring myself to accept the fact that even after two years since we severed the imaginary ties between us, I'm still confused. Who would've thought I could ever take anyone seriously? But I did. And it still makes me wonder...why? And you—of all people—should know that I detest second-guessing myself. But that's just what I'm doing for twenty-four freakin' months (and counting)! So here I am, once again attempting to pacify my turbulent feelings by writing down my thoughts on this yellow paper. Perhaps, if I could retell our story to myself, I would be able to pinpoint where we went wrong.

It all began with me—professing that highschool love is for losers who do not have anything better to busy themselves with. It's not that I hate love. I just think high school is too early for such things. And then –Enter you! You effortlessly made me rethink all the convictions that made me who I am.

While I was crazy with standards, you didn't give two cents about them. My standards for my ideal guy were, as my friends told me, impossibly high. You wouldn't even be able to compare. You were the complete anti-thesis of the man I thought I would love. And yet...

I used to fantasize about what the person I love would give me. He would give me a white gold charm bracelet; you gave me a handmade bracelet out of DMC threads. He would give me a stuffed bunny; you gave me a stuffed dog instead. He would give me commendations, you showered me with criticisms.

I don't really know if it's "because of" or "despite" these things, that I started noticing you. I memorized your little quirks and the nuances that gave me clues on what you're thinking. I even exerted effort to know what makes you smile and what irks you, your hobbies, your favorite color, your favorite food...and it got me thinking, do you even know these things about me? Would you even care to know them? The sad thing is: I don't think you do; I don't think you would.

But darn it! You were always there when I think you weren't. You'd tell me my earrings are too big when I deem them not, that my pants are too tight when I feel they aren't, that I'm annoying when I'm simply trying to show I care. Then there are those times when you'd congratulate me for fixing my hair even when I didn't do a thing about it, you'd tell me I did well in volleyball when in truth, I sucked big time, and tell me I looked pretty in my picture where I actually looked like I smelled someone's flatulence. The shocking thing was-you aren't showing any sign of sarcasm at all. And the even more shocking thing was that...I absorbed every word you said like I can't get enough of them. Even if most of the time, they hurt.

There were times when I actually thought you cared for me the same way I do for you. You'd ask me if I ate enough, ask me if I'm okay, ask me if I'm already sleepy, and then you'd give me that online rose that I've mistaken for blades of grass. You even showed the protective side of you that I never saw you show anyone else. It made me feel special. It was too bad that it's too late when reality slapped me on the face. Being someone's special isn't the same as being someone's love. But I still wished I was the latter.

It would be impossible of course. So I kept everything to myself. I don't know if I'm glad or sad that you don't know! Oh, but of course! How would you ever know when I can't even talk to you? How would you ever notice when I can't even stare at you? You can't talk to me or look at me either.

So I realized, without me/you talking or looking at you/me, I must only be deluding myself from the very beginning that...somehow; there was SOMETHING beautiful blooming between us. Ha! Again, another disappointment. But I'm used to it now.

Okay, now that I've written out most of the things that're bugging me, I'm going to stop. Because, really, holding my pen so tightly that it looks like I'm going to snap it in half, doesn't bode well with my cheerful, carefree persona. Now that I think of it, my seatmate's looking at me as if I've gone mad. Have I gone mad? I wish not.

-Me

P.S. I never loved you.

P.P.S. If I did, I wouldn't tell you anyway.

~o.O.o~