iMessage
I know. I sent you the “this was my experience” letter. It’s the one that has the truth in it. Not the sugar-coating. Not the one that takes all the blame. The one that owns my actions and lays yours bare. Your particular makeup won’t allow this to stand, so I’m sure you dulled it out after the first few paragraphs. You should actually read it. All the points made are irrefutable because they are MY experience of you.
I was sick of acknowledging your emotions as the only truth. There’s only so much accountability one can take. After that, it becomes a question of compatibility, and one other question:
“If you’re so ******* miserable, why did you agree to take this on?” Love is the answer for a short distance. After that, it’s murky.
I’ve one or two letters more to drop on you before I sign off on you. Maybe they’ll hit the right spot. They’re meant to be for you. About you. An homage to you, and the effect you had. They’re love letters. Please read them. Maybe you’ll come away without hate. I love you. I’m sorry our stubbornness took our agency away. I miss your taste, your sounds. I miss your speech.
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