subject line: the downside to sending a letter is that you might get one back.


stockton, california 

I saw the mail lying on the table this morning before I left for work. Bills, bills, dentist appointment reminder, letter. My name on it. I don’t know if anyone else saw this letter in the pile, but I hope not. I don’t want them to ask what it says because I don’t know if I can read it, and because I’m tired of explaining things. This letter is a response to one I sent explaining things. Grabbing words and stringing them together in hopes to communicate a feeling; or better, in hopes to communicate why I had a lack of feeling and why I said goodbye. Goodbye because I was confused, I was hurting, and I needed to heal from what the earlier year had just done to me. I wasn’t ready to be dragged along for the ride, especially with the open wounds I still had- love shouldn’t feel like being dragged along. I never loved him yet I tried so hard. I sent the letter because you don’t want to live with an unsent letter. And I sent the letter because I thought that would be the last word, the book closed. I thought. I didn’t think I would get one back and I didn’t think I would have to feel like this. I stared at it for a long time, then I opened it. I closed it, I put it down, I picked it back up, I opened it. I took the letter out and set it down. I shouldn’t read it, I thought. But I did anyway. After reading my letter, he had wrestled with asking me for another chance, he said. That was not what I had hoped to accomplish.

But could there be something in me that subconsciously pushed me to do something that I knew would bring him back? Could I have written the letter thinking that I was going to have the last word, but actually desiring to start the conversation again- unbeknownst to myself? Is that even possible? And if it is, do I even know myself at all? Part of me is terrified that I was wrong in ending it, that he is right for me, and just the timing was the only thing not right. And the other part of me is petrified that I was right all along, and as soon as I tried again, I would remember exactly why I left and not be able to explain why I ever came back. And like I said: I’m tired of explaining things.