• Dear You,
    Been a while, hasn’t it? No calls. No texts. No random visits. Not even a wave in the hallway.
    And somehow I like it better that way.
    Things couldn’t have been like they used to be. We could never have tried again, kissed and made up. It just wouldn’t have worked.
    Even though I was silent, I was hurting, hurting because of you, because you were my soul and you were ripped from me. I couldn’t cope. I couldn’t live without my soul.
    Then I grew angry at you. I had thoughts about killing you, you know.
    I didn’t care that I’d be a murderer. I didn’t care that you would be dead. I didn’t care about the consequences. I’d have revenge. I’d have killed my own soul.
    I obviously didn’t do it, seeing as I’m still here and I’m writing this. That doesn’t mean I’m not angry, though. Trust me, I am. I’m angry at you for skipping off and not caring, for leaving me and your old friends in the dust, for ignoring us, me, and for keeping secrets from me, secrets that you blatantly told to others, but did not inform me, your best friend, your sister, of.
    So I don’t want you running back to me. Perhaps that’s selfish to say, but I honestly think that I’m better off without you. I’m selfish in thinking that I don’t want you anymore, that I feel like discarding you like an outgrown toy, though it makes me no better than you. I’d be doing the same thing you did to me.
    I was your toy. But you were mine. You are the beloved childhood toy, worn with the love of many years, but put away carefully in a box on the shelf, never to see daylight for many years.
    Two months of not seeing you will be good for both of us, or at least for me. There I go with the selfishness again. To put it simply, though, I don’t think I can see you for a while. Seeing you every day has caused me enough trouble. Didn’t you know, that for quite a while, really, every time I saw you a little needle pricked me in the back of the neck like a stinging memory, making a tiny little wound.
    Trés emo, no?
    I haven’t forgiven you just yet, and I don’t think I can. I just need… time. All I ask of you is time.
    This isn’t the end. Not for you or me. For us, yes, but not for you or me. You should live your life. I’ll live mine. Perhaps we’ll go in different directions. But maybe one day we’ll meet again, shopping at a super market, old ladies with carts full of oatmeal and prune juice.
    Maybe we’ll catch up on the times, talk of our grandchildren, or lack thereof, and of our numerous cats that we’ll each have. I look forward to the day.
    And, just maybe, I’ll have forgiven you, by then.

    Love always,
    Me.