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August 1, 10:37 pm
I spent my night with a bottle of wine in the living room of my best friend's apartment in place of my phone to avoid calling you.
It was a moscato that tasted like sunshine and healing, and I had almost half of an entire bottle to myself because I am an adult and I am allowed to drink and sing and laugh and dance and love.
It was delicious, but no wine so sweet will ever leave a better taste on my lips than the indent of Riley's left dimple when she laughs so hard that her face burns crimson.
(She was laughing at your favorite joke, and it only made me miss you more.)
I could not tell you through voice nor text nor anything between, so I write to you now: Happy birthday to you and to all that share this day. I hope that whoever you were with took you to that little bakery a few blocks from the library. I know how much you love it there.
August 2, 1:16 pm
Your father showed his affection to your mother by grasping her neck with his trembling hands and shouting at her until his voice was hoarse. You learned from him to express your love through vulgarity and aggression.
Farkle finds it tragic that I still can't find it in myself to blame you for the damage done.
August 3, 11:44 pm
A dinner isn't a date as much as a meal between two people with an interest in spending time with each other, platonic or not- so don't ask me if my night with Josh was a date because I'm not exactly sure.
I do know that he looked at me like the blue in my eyes had filled the planet's oceans, and it was almost whimsical.
Tonight, with a boyish grin and a genuine laugh, Josh made me feel loved. (Whether platonically or not, I'm not exactly sure.)
August 4, 8:56 pm
Everyone tells me that none of this was my fault.
They say that I need to stop making excuses for you.
Why did you do the things that you did? I don't want you to be misunderstood anymore, so help me understand you, John.
I know that you can't. I know that it's ridiculous to ask you now what I should've when we were together, but here I am.
Hopeful for this.
Hopeful for us.
Hopeful for you.
Hopeful, hopeful, hopeful.
August 5, 2:26 pm
I just got back from lunch with my mother. She tells me that I have color in my eyes again, but I don't believe it. You drained me of a bit too much for my recovery to have made such progress in the month we've been separated.
In the period between our first date and our first anniversary, I visited her a total of three times. The first two were alone. You had excuses not to go, using your friends as scapegoats, but you were really at concerts. Not just any concerts, either. The concerts of a girl I'm quite close with now, but we can talk about her later.
The only time you went home with me was our first Christmas. You spit out my mother's food, you ignored her questions, and you wrapped your fingers too tightly around my arm when I asked you why you were being so rude.
You said you never wanted to go home with me again. You called my childhood apartment a filthy box. You told me that you didn't understand how I grew up in that disgusting neighborhood without a disease. You exclaimed that the homeless man down my street explained why I was so greedy when asking you for attention. You laughed at the park that I went to for thinking. You refused to take the subway because you found it cramped and grimy, though you saw why I would be comfortable. You tore down every memory I smiled on.
I stopped going back after that.
August 6, 11:38 pm
I was asked to define true love in my therapy session this afternoon.
I was asked to label the signs according to my own mind.
I told him of the nights I would lay in bed and long for you.
Your voice whispering sweet nothings against my ear.
Your laugh lifting my soul to the ceiling and back with pure adoration.
The pads of your thumbs swiping away my falling tears as I wept.
It wasn't until he asked who had caused me to cry in the first place that I'd ever questioned my interpretation.
August 7, 11:34 pm
When I was in the fifth grade, I read this book about a little boy that dies in a bike accident. He forgets his helmet and he flies into a truck, and the entire book is told from the perspective of his older sister as she struggles through the experience.
I always thought the book was a bit heavy for a group of elementary schoolers- in fact, I think that it was banned in a few states- but that's all besides the point.
When I was in the fifth grade, I read a book about a boy that dies from not wearing a helmet, and I found it absolutely absurd because there was no way that two inches of foam could've saved his life like the pages claimed. It was a tall tale used to scare us into always riding safely, the haunting words of Mick Harte Was Here in the back of our minds while we zipped through city parks. We spent an entire month on a unit telling us that if we didn't fasten a hunk of plastic around our skulls, we would die.
It was absolutely morbid, and I still didn't wear mine.
Auggie never forgets his helmet while riding his bike, though. Who could blame him? He is related to Riley, after all. Plus, he read that book, too! More recently than us, considering he only turned thirteen a few months ago, so it was still pretty much fresh in his mind when he left for some little suburb with some of his friends yesterday to check out a new skate park.
He had on all of his gear: knee pads, elbow pads, a mouth guard, and, goddamn it, the hunk of fucking plastic that would save his life when he soars off of his skidding bike and into the side of a cement building head first.
After I write to you, Riley is forcing me to send letters to my fifth grade teacher and Barbara Parks herself apologizing for calling "a heartbreaking story of tragedy and acceptance" a "heaping pile of crap that's got a more pathetic plot line than the boogeyman eating us if we don't follow our bedtimes."
Mind you that she yelled this at me while we were at the bedside of her little brother in the emergency room, but the kid is alright, and I suppose that's all that really matters.
August 8, 4:43 pm
As I write this, Lucas sits beside me softly humming as he reads that fucking book- you know, the one that I told you about last night? (It wasn't a requirement in Texas, go figure.) Riley forced it on him as soon as she found out he hadn't been assigned it in grade school, and I volunteered to be the one to share a table with him at the library as he indulged himself with the narrating thoughts of a thirteen year old girl.
Auggie comes home from the hospital tomorrow, and I'm really excited about it. We're going to throw him a small party.
I'm starting to feel less guilty.
Lucas had to remind me that I'm almost as much of a sister to him as Riley is and hold my hand when we picked out the streamers at the store, but I'm starting to feel less guilty about dedicating my time to people other than you.
I held Lucas's hand and I planned a party that I will be at for far longer than the hour limit you had typically set for me when I was allowed out, and all I want to do is scream those facts from the top of the Empire State Building.
It feels good to be on my own.
August 9, 10:56 pm
Auggie is home, Riley is asleep, and Lucas is grinning as wide as can be after spending half an hour dancing with me in a room of worn decorations and soft dated music after everyone had left.
Many have told me that you and I are better apart, and I think that I'm starting to see what they mean.
August 10, 6:47 pm
My favorite thing about you was your laugh. Not the belittling one that you used against me or the ghosted one our friends would hear, but your purest, most genuine mixture of amusement and happiness.
You didn't laugh much, but, on these rare nights when things weren't too quiet and I wasn't shattering our peace, we would sit and we would just talk. As my hope slowly built from its crumbled form, you would grin your sweetest grin before breaking out into an adorable fit of chuckles.
It was magical.
August 11, 5:11 am
The first serious fight that we ever had was over Farkle.
How silly, right?
Farkle! Of all the people! That little nerdy guy!
Well, you found it silly.
I didn't.
When I told you about him, you chuckled mercilessly at his name, asking if his mother's name was Smackle as some type of cruel humor.
I looked you dead in the eyes and told you that Smackle was his girlfriend's name. It wasn't a joke to me. It was the life of one of my best friends and you were making it out to be comedic relief for your oh so tragic life.
You laughed so hard that you had tears in your eyes and I walked away from you for the first of the only two times I would our entire relationship.
I wish I'd realized then that your laugh wasn't anything special.
August 20, 7:34 pm
Hey, stranger.
...Get it? Because I haven't really written you in a few days. (Nine, to be exact, but who's counting?) I know that you didn't really think I was funny, but I chuckled a little and I feel like that's what matters.
I saw you last week.
It was the first time since the break up.
I was going to that little bakery (our little bakery) because I was putting away my winter coat for the next few weeks and I found my punch card for a free muffin. I figured- why not? I could always go for a cup of tea and a baked good. So, I got up and I walked a few blocks and I went right in those doors thinking that I could do it! I was a single woman getting over a traumatic breakup, and this was a process that was appropriate for it being a few weeks out.
It was a genius plan right up until I saw you and it felt like a metal claw had slithered into my skin to shatter my beating heart inside of my ribcage so that I could feel shards of my love slicing the seams of my aching soul to shreds.
You were with a girl, a new one, and the fact that your eyes still found me while she was
sitting ahead of you made me feel nineteen and naive again. I felt triumphant as you excused yourself to walk over and greet me, hugging me close as if we were old friends eager to catch up.
You told me that you miss me, and your touch that lingered around me was soft enough that I believed you. I was shaking and I was so happy because, god damn it, I miss you, too, and your eyes held warmth and care and longing and so many things that I craved for the years that we were together and they were all so close and-
This is why I had to run. I'm not writing to you now to tell you about our altercation in that little bakery (our little bakery), I am writing to you to tell you why when you stared into my eyes and told me that you miss me, I turned around with tears slipping down my cheeks and I ran to the nearest place I could that I knew would be safe for me because I wasn't safe there.
I wasn't safe with you.
August 21, 2:56 am
I was with Lucas.
I don't know why I was so afraid to tell you that earlier, but I was with Lucas, and I stayed with Lucas for the nine days I avoided writing you. His apartment is only a block from that bakery (our bakery) so fleeing to it after seeing you again was the plan that seemed logical to me.
It was a great stay. He made me breakfast every morning and I got to choose the movies we watched in bed before he was sure he could turn it off because I had fallen asleep. When I woke up from nightmares of you, his fingertips brushed the tears from my face and he pulled me close enough to him that the feathering traces of hearts that he left on the small of my back were enough to overcome my fear that you would find me again.
I told him everything. He knew of the other girls, the stains of black and blue against my bones, the empty promises and pointless lies, nights I cried for you to stop. I even told him what you thought of him, what you told me he would do.
In response, he asked my permission before he kissed every inch of my skin while muttering against it reason after reason that I deserve much more than the scars you embedded into me.
We didn't fuck. I know that's the only thing on your mind right now considering how vulgar you tend to get, but we really didn't. While not innocent, short, or even fully clothed, we only kissed.
Lucas and I kissed and smiled and laughed and shared stories of our childhoods with our limbs intertwined.
I told him of the northern lights, and he promised he would take me on adventures like that and to protect me until his last day.
He promised me everything that you did, but the difference is that I believe him.
August 22, 10:00 pm
I still set the table for two out of impulse sometimes.
Then I sit and I stare at your empty seat.
Well, the empty seat.
I still claim everything as yours out of impulse sometimes, too.
August 23, 5:34 am
I asked to be alone today, and I know that you know why. (Everyone else does, too, and I think that's why they actually listened.)
I watched something of us. It was from the first time I spent my birthday with you. You whisked me away from my traditional party and insisted we spend the day road tripping to little touristy diners we saw, critiquing their birthday desserts and dancing in front of worn out jukeboxes that I was in love with.
In the video, you're telling me how we're taking a picture to capture our obnoxious presence and I'm giggling at the awkward angle you landed on because you whipped out your damn cell phone in the middle of our impromptu waltz.
"Miss Hart," you whispered, almost so quiet I couldn't make it out over the chatter of strangers at their respective tables, "tell me your biggest fear."
You always asked random little questions like that, or demanded to know things in that way, I guess. I watched my own eyes fall to the ground. The blush in my cheeks drained, waiting to expose the truth as I always did with you.
"I'm scared that you're going to hurt me."
I'd already had injuries from you by then. I was already battered and damaged, the only difference being that you were still apologizing for it when we first started out. By the month after we recorded this, you showed no remorse and I just took it.
"Oh, Maya," you cooed, your free hand slithering down my cheek. "I love you. Why would I do such a thing?"
So, tell me, please, why would you? Consider your explanation a gift to me on this special, special day.
Except, you didn't give gifts because you didn't believe in today.
"Our relationship should be celebrated every day, Maya, not just one. We are far too monumental to just recognize on a single date.", right?
The thing was that you never wanted to celebrate us.
Happy anniversary, John.
I wish I had answers to the questions lingering between us.
August 24, 11:47 pm
The nights are the hardest for me. Are they hard for you?
I know that you must have some other girl singing to you softly while tracing patterns on your chest by now, but do you miss my voice? My touch?
Do you miss me still?
August 25, 10:21 pm
Sometimes, if I hold my breath long enough, it's almost like you're still here.
I have an ache in my head making my ears ring, wincing at every ounce of light spilling towards me because I'm terrified that you'll be in one of the rooms waiting.
My vision needs to settle before I can even properly make out anything on my phone, but I don't try to even check it because you hated that, so I do with it what I did every day that we were together; I place it on the counter, charging with the screen up so that you can see any notifications that appear. I've always conveniently struggled with my sight just long enough for you to hide what you didn't want me to see.
My heart drums, my head pounds, and I'm so close to passing out that my eyes see nothing but flashing grids fading to black. I can't help but wonder if I'd be lucky enough to drop dead so that I can finally get some fucking rest.
I'm doing this just to feel close to you. I'm doing this so that I don't forget your voice and the freckles on your nose and so that my body aches where you used to grab me because that's the only way I feel alive anymore.
I'm tired, John.
I'm so fucking tired.
August 26, 9:37 pm
I still can't find it in myself to blame you. It's been weeks and I have more excuses
for you than I can count.
You had trouble controlling your temper. You only wanted to spend time with me. You had a bad day after getting rejected by a publisher. You got an average grade in your writing. Dinner wasn't hot enough. I forgot to call. You had scars from exes that drove insecurity to your core that I would leave you.
And I did.
I still can't find it in myself to be sorry
for proving that to be true, either.
August 27, 8:12 pm
I have a secret for you that I haven't told anyone yet, not even Riley.
I kissed Joshua Gabriel Matthews today, and it was everything that my adolescent crush had made it out to be.
He surprised me by coming over and making me "linner". (It's like brunch except it was between lunch and dinner because I slept in.) We made our food, turned on a movie, and about half an hour in, we turned to each other and we kissed.
He tasted like the burnt bacon from our BLTs and my favorite brand of chocolate milk that he picked up on his way over, and I wouldn't have had it any other way.
When we pulled apart, we laughed and laughed and laughed. We laughed at the lettuce caught in his teeth, we laughed at the tomato seeds stuck to my chin, and we laughed at two twenty-somethings sharing a meal on a worn out couch with swollen lips and racing hearts.
It wasn't what you're thinking, though. He leaves for Hawaii soon. He doesn't know what's out there for him, but he hopes to find out while he's gone.
We kissed to say goodbye, and I'm at peace with that.
I hope that somehow you are, too.
August 28, 4:33 pm
At first, I was scared to tell you about yesterday (even if I'm sure you won't touch this book). It was incredibly anxiety inducing, so I figured I could turn to Lucas for comfort after writing to you.
The thing is that I had no problem telling you. I was excited to tell you. I'm moving on from you. I'm recovering and I'm happy and I wanted you to know that, but the idea of Lucas finding out about yesterday? That's enough to take the air from my lungs.
I don't regret kissing him. It's just that while kissing him, there were lingering feelings drumming from deep within my chest crying that I should be kissing someone else.
I assumed they were for you, and that would be what makes sense in this scenario-
Except I wasn't afraid to tell you.
I'm afraid to tell Lucas.
August 30, 2:32 am
I told him, and he wasn't angry.
He shrugged and said he had no place to get upset because I am not his to kiss.
I jokingly asked if he wanted to be, and I'm lying awake right now wondering how much of that question was really a joke.
August 31, 4:36 am
I don't know why you didn't believe me when I told you that I loved you.
You would say that you did, but then you'd have hoops for me to jump through to prove my love to you.
If I really loved you, I wouldn't mind spending less time with my friends and family because you wanted to see me.
If I really loved you, I would happily hang on your arm at tons of parties ridden with drugs and hazes of smoke that I wanted nothing to do with because you needed to go.
If I really loved you, I would be by your side with your dinner hot and ready every single night because that's what a good girlfriend does.
But I wasn't a good girlfriend to you. I was too mouthy, too outgoing, too sloppy, too stupid. I wasn't punctual enough. I was a distraction, a pest while you wrote. I wasn't obedient to you, and you wanted nothing more in this world than my obedience.
I wanted nothing more in this world than for you to see how much I loved you.
What a pity.