You must think I’m this angry, unreasonable person. Who never let you have your rest, or was always mad at you for something. Who didn’t appreciate anything from you. Either that or you think I was an average or even a kind person whose state of mind is secondary to the far more severe consequences you will suffer if you were to associate with me. In thinking of the latter I wonder if it’s worthwhile to consider the former, but if you do think I am unreasonably bitter and unappreciative, then maybe that’s due to the incredible amount of effort I invested, kicking and screaming the entire way, that you wouldn’t have the pleasure of knowing how much I like you. That the anger you incited in me by what seemed to me as insensitivity and coldness of heart came first and foremost before I would be comfortable enough to openly discuss the deeper aspects, in which I liked everything you did and everything you are. I now keep this in my own webpage, so that I may not thrust my emotions at you, and you may read them if you are so inclined at your own liberty. And I write them because I have, with a certain amount of denial to the part of me which may fall apart completely if it were to realize this, come to understand that I will truly never have you.

Usually when one loses someone, one suffers a great deal of pain but comforts herself with the knowledge that the lost one were flawed and that a new person will compensate for the flaws in which the one you lost was lacking. It took me some time to realize that this has been difficult when you left because very few people I have met have qualities I like so much as you. You are a stubborn son of a bitch but you are also the most interesting boy I ever met. I suffer when I say this to you because my pride will not let you have the delight of knowing how much you mattered to me, undeservingly.

This is not a matter of love, because love requires trust and a balance between both sides, and I am both angry and guilty of conscience to say that I don’t trust you, but this should hardly anger you because you are full aware that you lied to me several times. I think it takes a certain amount of disrespect to lie to someone, especially if you do it multiple times. It hurt me when you thought I was trying to make you fall in love with me—I would never have tried to make someone fall in love with me if he were not in love already (I’m far too proud), and it was too clear to be spoken of that you were not in love with me—I hardly wanted to bring up the subject.

I realize that my feelings for you probably have a lot to do with my personality and my tendency to obsess over things, but in addition to that there is the logical fact that you are simply one in a million and it’s such a shame to lose you.

One thing I have longed to tell you for a long time but never had the opportunity—and this saddens me, though I’m not sure if anything I say has any influence on you either way—is that I have, with time, realized humbly that you were right about several things. You were surprisingly right about the importance of knowing someone very well before becoming closer and before becoming physical, and you were right about how difficult it is to stay up late the night before a workday.

I wonder if you knew how many issues I agreed with you on that you were first to bring up, how many issues I have a history of carrying on violent arguments with people about, that I was all but dumbfounded to hear you speak of, with the same unique opinion and frame of mind that I always fought for alone. So many things I have loved, you loved, before I ever told you I loved them. This makes it difficult for me now, as many of the things I loved before now remind me of you.

And it pains me to know that you are right—that despite how you unintentionally made me suffer and how much I exerted myself for patience and for restraining my thoughts and feelings—that you were right. How I hate to be in the position of a person asking another to care for her from far away. How I hate to be the person arguing for you to keep in touch with me, while I know full well that caring for someone long-distance is always a bad idea. You are right, these things never work and they always hurt everyone involved. How I hate having to be the one asking for this. Would it not, then, be far easier on both of our souls if I let everything go—how many nights I stayed awake throughout the night, wide-eyed and miserable, wishing that I didn’t care anymore, that I could let it go.

And how, you might think, can I be so inconsiderate and uncompassionate to disregard your feelings completely—the problems you have clearly suffered in your own life, which have nothing or little to do with me, I imagine that, if you thought of me once in a blue moon, might bother you; I do feel compassion for that, I am not completely stubborn; but forgive me—I feel that you are hardly deserving of my compassion for issues you never felt me deserving of knowing about. You made sure to keep me out of your life, it is only fair that I not overexert my suffering self to feel compassionate for issues you never saw me fit to know of.
 

I carried myself with my own broken hands for years; I graduated last spring with five honors, including summa cum laude and having scored a 41 on the MCAT, having been published twice for my research and having served on the board of four groups, one of which I cofounded, and having interned in seven departments at the hospital. I had danced ballet for 13 years and performed nationally, and taught horseback riding and biology. That after having been kicked out of my parent’s house and almost having received a police report for punching my 6’ brother. I loved comic books, literature analysis, and rock music before I ever met you. And everything that I was, everything I lived for, all my accomplishments became nothing for some reason after you stopped caring about me, and it disgusts me to think that that’s how I felt. I could never let you know how much it mattered, it made me feel too sick. I couldn’t let you know that I not only learned to play the guitar to get your attention, but I composed too, before you ever wrote me a song, which I knew all along you weren’t planning on doing, for a good reason.

I couldn’t let you know that for some reason that I don’t understand, I started crying when I first listened to hundreds of sparrows.

That I know how very little I mattered to you, that I don’t matter anymore, and that I don’t need to hear your response to this, because I know what it feels like not to care for someone, and when you don’t care, you simply don’t care.

I held back so many things—words and feelings and thoughts, because although they were burning me from the inside, I didn’t want to ruin things any further by saying anything.

I know you have no intent of speaking with me again, but how can I develop feelings for anyone else while you are still out there—to do that, I would have to fully believe that I don’t care for you at all anymore, and although that would be best, it would be like throwing away diamonds. It’s just not something you can do readily and with a calmness of mind.

I don’t think I need to know how your life is advancing—it may hurt me too much. You shouldn’t know this, but it ate me alive to think that she had you every night. Every night. Willingly, without mental anguish and the world of agony I suffered to merely speak with you.

Some doors, I understand, are best left closed. But all things being equal, I’m not even sure if it’s a good idea to close it. That I say because I was thinking of it, not because I’m trying to ask anything of you anymore. It would hurt me too much to expect you to reply anymore.