The truth is, I really do still miss you. The truth is, if I let myself think about it too much or I sit here in bed with a dull look on my face and my mind draws a blank, you're still the first thing to cross my mind, and every day I wonder how you are, what you're doing, and who you're with.

The truth is, I'm afraid I'm never going to forget you. Not that I'll ever really forget anyone who meant something to me, but I'm afraid that you're gonna keep filling whatever hole it was there was in me before there was you, and there's never gonna be anyone else. I'm afraid It'll always be you.

There's one thing that's rooted in my mind; the night you kissed me and you told me you loved me, that you meant it and you waited so long because you wanted to be sure, and I kissed your cheek and told you I wasn't something to be afraid of.

I thought you were beautiful and I still do, honest. I think you're the most beautiful girl I've ever met, I've ever seen, I've ever even heard of and I can't see anyone else anymore. The truth is, I built up the idea of the perfect girl and the perfect relationship and it was you.

I miss my best friend.

I've been getting better, and I'm not lying anymore when I say that. You know how I used to call you crying, and I'd tell you I didn't know what I was doing and I think you really were afraid I was going to drive myself over the edge? That doesn't happen anymore. I've got it under control, for the most part, and maybe that's why all the little things don't mean what they used to; if everything doesn't hurt, maybe the occasional thing that didn't just feels normal now.

Maybe that's just how things work, and maybe you just showed up at the perfect time, when falling in love was still first on a short list of priorities, before life and growing up and buying a car and going to work came into the picture, when there was still the time to sit down and really think about things and when I could have nothing but you on my mind all day.

I swear to god, if you kissed me I'd die.

And I'm going to blame you. I'm going to blame you for things being okay, just okay. Not fantastic, not horrible, but plain old mediocre okay. I'm going to blame you for the fact that I can't write anymore, that I can't keep penning all my dreams of some perfect person anymore, and I'm going to say it's because all of a sudden it was all real and it's like everything was just you.

I see you everywhere now.

Can I say it was the best sex I ever had?

Can I admit that you were the first one I actually loved. You were the first one who wasn't just sex.

Dear Carly Shay, I miss you terribly.

Ham doesn't taste like it used to anymore, for fuck's sake. And it's not just because all the food in my house is stale or moldy and the food at your apartment is fresh.

At least, I'll try to blame you for that too.

I fucking miss you. Come home soon, please.

dear liz, love me.