all i ever wanted to do was breathe
a letter from me to mij zon
hey. somehow you've made it to my letter to you. congratulations, or should i apologize for what you're about to read? perhaps the future me is shaking her head and screaming that this was a bad idea, but here i am. the now me. trying to start a letter with feelings that won't come out of my head. (don't even make the joke i see you there) i was going to be friends with you and get over you. but i have yet to do so. if anything i fall harder. (nope don't) i wanted her to get a chance, but you're worth me fighting for. please, i ask, meet up with me when i return. give me a chance with you.
it's 1:30 am right now. your birthday is in about a month.
i know that your favourite colour is pale blue, and that you have blue eyes. (purple is your second favourite colour)
you're tall. (just over 6 foot is pretty fucking gigantic)
you don't like sand because it "gets fucking everywhere"
you like eminem, imagine dragons. the beatles, muse.
(you like that one song that saved lives.)
you're tall, and lanky, but you have the deepest voice, and sarcastic humour to go with it. you describe your features and i think you don't like them. i think you're perfect.
you have a dog. she's the cutest one alive, sweetheart, and i might prefer your dog over you :)
you are obsessed with technology, and you play the guitar. i think you'd sound great when you sing, too.
you game. a bedwars player, a valorant gamer, a bunch of different things that i don't even remember (that one time i watched you play crab game, and genshin.)
you're a scifi / horror movie fan. you liked madagascar (peak of pixar!), V for Vendetta. Iron Man for the base of MCU. (And your love for Marvel. You like Doctor Strange and No way home. they're good.)
you take french, and latin. languages are something you seem to be good at. and theology. but your love is still for computer science. (and math. and physics)
pineapple on pizza is good. glad you agree, classic chicken roast and chicken caesar salad too. admirable taste.
tattoos and alcohol and coffee aren't your thing. but you get why i did what i did.
and the thing i respect you for is your refusal of casual friendships. you demand conversation, and a lively one at that.
you need 6 hours of sleep to stay alive, and i don't but you still ask me to. so i do try. (did you know that you've already helped some of the monsters stay away?)
it's been our fourth day of chatting, and i just have one question now.
why is it so easy to love you?
today is the fifth day, and i can safely say that you aren't a touchy person. you like small, personalized gifts, loving time and acts of service. i hate that i am the same. (i don't really, darling.)
you admit to corrupting me with your jokes, and i love you for it.
you have dinner at 6 because where you're at it gets dark and cold faster than it does here.
and you have a french test on friday. you don't seem to be confident, though. "the pulled pork at lunch is made from people who failed french test."
i know maybe our talking is for this budding friendship. so much potential.
but i hate that i'm not good enough for you. you know some problems i hold from my past, and somehow you still talk to me. i'm not worth it, but i still want to be. i'm trying, sunshine, i'm trying.(i hate you for making me love you)
i've been told that you agreed to meet up in real life with her. (i still don't know what you look like, sweetheart.) (it's been three hours and I know now.) and if it goes well, you see how she's more interesting than i could ever be? i will let you go. i promise.
(why does it hurt so much?)
we didn't talk much today. (sixth day)
but you answered that your meaning of life was 42 (it's a joke, right?)
you stare at the bottom of the cup when you drink. sometimes to the front.
you also had math. i don't know what to say to you, anymore.
maybe i give up just to soothe my heart? but could i bear to... could i bear to?
(i wish you would reciprocate)
Who said a little crime wasn't romantic?
we run as we mouth at ice creams
stolen from the store down the road
you pass me the keys to your room
and i steal clothes that are yours
we go out to some bars and drink too much
but it's fine when we drive together
i stop at an atm and we break the damn thing
you grab the money and we escape
we skip down alleys late at night and some guy tries to touch me
you knock him out quick and clean then put him in the backseat
you take us back to your basement
i throw a knife at him
we strum guitars and sing at each other
while his blood stains the floor
but it's not enough
we can be the most romantic
i set the dynamite down on the floor of the church
and you link it up like a deadly daisy chain
you light it up
and we watch it all burn
like fireworks in the night sky
who would dare to say to me that
crime isn't romantic?
Hey. You remind me as if I don't check my emails every day. I just found that amusing. I do actually use this email for communicating with people, you know. The only inbox that matters to me.
To answer your first question, I will probably be waiting for a long while.
What for? I wish I knew. Waiting is such a mundane task, and yet when put into context it becomes the most adrenaline-filled pause before the fall.
Your second question was to ask if I was still hurt.
Are you? Let me ask you.
Your answer is as good as mine. I don't know what your is, so ultimately you will be the only one to know the result. No, my happiness doesn't depend on you, and my memories no longer dwell on you either. But your guess is as good as mine. Does the hurt go away?
Your third question touches the border of both yes, and no. I can safely tell you that I used to love you.
But to be honest, I know what love feels like. But I don't know what tells it apart. If you asked me to pick it out in between the millions of words I could express, I would be thinking for the rest of my life and possibly beyond. So yes, perhaps I still love you.
But I know that love doesn't always last. At some point innocent little me thought that love was a forever, something that would be as permanent as human existence. Not that that's gonna last with climate change. And I know that things have changed so drastically within myself that I probably couldn't tell "love" from "contempt". At least, I think. I wouldn't know. So perhaps I don't love you.
I read this over and it sounds like I either love you, or hate you. No. This feeling shit is a conundrum, but this much I know- Nobody wins, either way. So it's just. A hair's breadth from figuring itself out. I just need a little more time.
And addressing your fourth question, why do you assume that I write you because of this? My life has nothing to do with yours, and vice versa. I have nothing against you, but nothing that aids you. You hold virtually no power over me, and even if anything was my fault I would not take blame. No, I write for myself, as an outlet. I write because you don't read, and if you do I know you'll never find my real words. The words that anyone would have understood but yourself. I made sure of that. I don't want you to try anything, or take anything I say to heart. Half the time it's sleep deprivation anyway, but thank you for caring.
Your second email gets another sections. The reply on my musings of the night.
It's masochistic thoughts, not sadistic. Search it up?
I'll let you know this, though. I am no longer jealous, angry or sad. Thank you for reading my few rants, and providing me closure. I deserved it, and I recieved it just fine. So thank you.
I loved the writing, actually. The difference is that I've always loved to be alone, and you've never wanted to stew in your thoughts. I, will admit, am the person written in the first half of the passage. I need my personal space, yet enjoy friendships and socializing. So no, I don't understand how you hate the writing. But you don't have to explain, I got the gist.
My waiting is not forever, I know. I'm not waiting for you, I'm waiting for life to slowly move on for the both of us. I know, I sound like an asshole. But that's the truth. I would have said, if you asked me this a week ago, that I'm waiting for you to catch up. But that's simply no longer the case. As a decent human being, I'll be here for you as long as you ask. I may be straightforward and angry sometimes, but that dosn't mean I'm cruel. But the point being: As Long as you Ask.
Forgive me for being too open about this. But you're missing yourself. And control. Yes, I thought you had strong control over your emotions and feelings, and I believe you think so too. News flash: you don't. Now that I can see you from a outer perspective. You switch emotions within the blink of an eye, blame others for little things (I don't think you notice? But it's still hurtful to the others here). You self-decapricate too much and take credit too little. Live the small things, and hold your own. Nobody can be there for someone who's absent.
I guess now that I'm writing I've had an epiphany.
I miss you in the late nights when you used to fill the gaps with words. But now I've let you go.
I don't think that's love. I know you can see it's not, either.
I realize now, that this will probably be one of the last emails I will send you. At least on this account. Because what's the point? If you want to contact me, email me properly, I guess. I will always answer, and I will be waiting, but only if you ask.
And as a last word?
when I start reading
S A D
There's a pain in my heart.
I open my mouth to let it out.
It strangles my ribcage
just around the underband of my bra.
Why is it there?
When did it get there?
I hate it.
I can't breathe,
And yet when I can't feel it
I miss it.
Or perhaps I just want to feel again.
have you ever been heart-broken?
you've been sick.
you haven't always been
but you were.
for a whole two weeks I knew about it
and I held on to hope
for as long as I could
that you would live another twenty years.
Just like you told me
(never lose hope! Life has it's ways of surprising us with gifts.)
Twenty-second of March.
And it took twenty-two seconds for reality to sink in
When the monitors stopped whirring and beeping
And when the silence started to pierce my ears
And your heart just...
You were lying there,
An unmoving, fading person
that wasn't really a person anymore
instead a memory.
I didn't cry.
Should I be sorry?
The nurses looked at me like I was crazy
You were just gone
and I looked as if I'd already moved on
But you'd understand me if you were alive.
I am the oldest, after all.
I take the head of this family now.
Now that you're gone...
I couldn't cry
because I wanted to be like you.
the infallible, hopeful, supportive figure
that was always there for us
and my brothers need that now.
but you aren't here.
We're full grown adults
We have stable jobs
our own families,
even after all three of us grew up
even after we married
even after we moved out
we still needed you
I still need you
but you aren't here.
Is it my fault?
That I didn't check up on you enough?
I could have done better.
You might have lived if I did something.
However far fetched that sounds.
It was pneumonia,
not a sudden death at all,
but I still feel guilty,
like I could have saved you.
In the end,
when your lungs filled for the final time
and the tubes couldn't drain fast enough for you to breathe
and you were coughing
and drowning in air
you looked like you were in pain.
maybe you heard me
maybe you didn't
but I told your heart to
you would finally be at peace.
I know too much about the dark.
It frightens and terrifies with its unpredictability,
Children hide until they reach maturity.
I know the dark appears anywhere, so when it edges away from night
To daytime you see it’s still there.
You observe the patterns of its domination.
I know too much about the dark.
It sucks you in and spits you out into your own graveyard of
Pills, pain and pale pink walls.
And I know even more about the dark.
Its silence that rings through empty hallways.
I never knew how loud it was.
And yet the dark is a protector,
that shields you from the outside world,
Pray you don’t get torn away,
Shatters of you left in the white room.
I know too much about the dark,
And because of that I’m safe, submit.
For I know the secrets, they left a mark,
And I’ve no need to hide from it.
I know in my heart that you will ruin me.
You'll break me by your kindness, care,
But you'll trash me by your absences.
Because we both know you'll leave.
You always do, at the end of the day
No matter how much I beg you to stay,
I've pleaded you to,
I need you still,
But you won't, and you never will
Because I'm just the puppy you see at the shelter,
The one you entertain but adopts like, never
(How do they not see your ruthlessness?)
But hiding with a front,
You have skin in the game
And you own your shames
You can win at the blame
But you're stuck in your frame
I never had you
But maybe you never had you either
Thank you for writing in my prompt about suicide. It hasn’t ended yet, but I’ve read all of you incredibly talented people’s writings so far, and I loved every single one.
Thank you for sharing your experiences. There is strength in words, and I hope you guys are okay.
My messages are always open to those who want a friend.
(p.s. There will not be a winner.)
I remember once upon a winter night, you and I. We snuck away from home, escaping to the sea. You always loved the sea.
You told me, that night, that the sea was your freedom. Your liberty, your escape. I asked you what you meant, but you only smiled into your bottle of lemonade. I let it be. I should have demanded an answer. I could have helped you.
Why didn’t you tell me then?
The sea was- no, is still your favourite. I wonder if you would have said the same in a few years as we grew up.
You were running along the shore, barefoot, with pants rolled up and light laughter fading into the night as you sprinted further away.
I ran after you. I tried to catch up, but I was always one step behind, watching your footprints be wiped away by the rising tide, the water lapping at your heels.
You kept running. Eventually, I ran out of energy. I forfeited the chase, but you kept going like you would die if you ever stopped. I asked you to stop and when you turned around for a brief moment, I saw the faint tear lines reflect in the moonlight and the look of pure terror on your face.
I shut up. I let you go.
What were you running from, Alec? Was it me? Was it stress? Work? Love, or life itself? Were you sad? Were you afraid? Why did you keep running?
Since you’ve been gone, people act odd around me. They look at me as if I was going to implode. They treat me like a fragile porcelain doll, whereas they used to give me hell for loving you the way I did. And now you’re gone, now you’ve traded in your life for this awkward, thick silence I condemn the world for.
You may have found your peace, but I will never know what you were running from that night.