iMessage
Hey.
I was drunk last time I was here. Drunk and missing you.
You deserve more than drunk feelings. You deserve sober ones. I've always had a hard time showing the soft underbelly of my feelings. I know I hurt you by refusing to roll over. Never wanting to show my hand. Always wanting plausible deniability. You deserve me putting my cards face up and all my ugly, embarrassing feelings being exposed.
So let me tell you the truth:
I have written 100,000s of words of fanfiction. You can smirk and laugh but those words are well loved by thousands of people. I've written stories of heartbreak and healing and falling in love and grief and joy and all of them are about you. I almost always give them a happy ending.
And while I would love us to have a happy ending, well. For all the love stories I've read and written, I wouldn't trade outs for any of them.
So here's the thing. I might not know how to speak my feelings to you but they're there, woven into a hundred stories and raw and broken. Home is you and me. Loving you brought the sun. My love for you--that's mine. You can't take it from me. All that pain never meant anything, it just hurts. Every time the wound starts to scab I tear it back open. The truth is that I'm a ******* coward. I'm ******* terrified of being vulnerable. I'm scared of intimacy. I wanna cuddle and ****. You are worth so much, just for being you. I don't want you to be anyone except who you are. You brought light into my life again. Even if you never meant to. I don't think I'm capable of hating you. God knows I've tried. I can't talk about my feelings, it's like my throat closes up. Makes perfect sense, you're my heart. I'm so proud of you. I hurt you. I did the exact thing to you that I was scared you would do to me. I'm sorry.
If you came back into my life by some miracle of fate--well, you're the only miracle I would ever believe in. But I would show you all my stories. I'd tell you when you ask "Who's who?" that we're both of them. They both speak in my voice. They both speak in yours. Every wound I carry rests in their chests and I dress it up to match their stories.
Confession: I don't know how to tell you what I feel. I don't know how to bridge a gap that's several years wide. I don't know how to speak my soft parts aloud. But I wrote a hundred love stories and they were all about you.
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