Dear Summer,
It's been months now, hasn't it? I've gotten more restless. More anxious. It's harder to fall asleep now. I'll admit it, the first month, I cried myself to sleep every night. I missed you something terrible. It was hard to get you out of my head. I've tired myself out being upset over you.
And that's why I'm writing to you now. I know you don't care about me anymore, and I'm not asking for anything. I just want to tell you that I've tried to forget about you, but it doesn't work. My memory is painted with pictures of you, and I'm trying to wash away whatever we had, but I'm having a more difficult time than you are. I know you've moved on, in every sense of the word; brand new life in Westminister, new job, new boyfriend. I won't harass you, then, and I strongly urge you to throw this letter away as soon as you read it—if you even bother to read it, that is. There's a chance you will recognize the handwriting on the crinkled envelope and know it's from me. I know there's an even bigger chance you'll get angry upon seeing a remnant of me, of us. Well, of what used to be us. I'm not writing to you to ask you for anything. I just wanted to let you know, because I was never good at letting you know when you were around, that I really did, and I still do care about you.
And I know, I know. I have no business to tell you this now. But I feel it's necessary. It's not that I woke up one day and decided to remind you that I still exist. It's not that at all. I've worked up the courage for weeks to write this letter. I've thought about the countless things that I would say to you, given the chance, but I know I'm not going to get the chance ever again, and that's why you're going to get this letter. I want you to know that I can't sleep at nights because of you.
I know you said that I didn't care about you, that I never did, and that isn't true in the least bit. Your memories fill me up and keep me awake for days, like a drug. I wish I could forget. I want to move on, too. But it's hard to move on when all I can think about is the soft colored dresses you used to wear, or the freckles on your wrist and the dark curls that hung loosely around the nape of your neck. I remember holding hands with you whenever we went out, not because I felt obliged to, but because my palm felt empty and lacking if I didn't. I remember the way you would laugh, loudly, but not shrill; I remember when it was chilly outside and there was snow on the ground, and you'd wear tights under your dress and then complain about being cold. I remember the water stains on your hardwood floors, because you were clumsy enough to knock over a cup almost every day. I remember the kisses that tasted like coffee, and the ones that tasted like vanilla, and I remember embracing you and smelling sweet coconut shampoo in your hair, and everything was warm and we were both happy.
I know you're still happy, out there in Westminister, in your brand new life, with your new job and your new boyfriend. I know I have no right to send you this letter, so perhaps I'll hide it under my mattress and forget all about it. This is easier said than done, because I'm having such a troubling time forgetting things.
I guess what I'm really trying to tell you is that I miss you. I miss you a lot.
Love,
Tom