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?

Thank you.