Dear You,
I don't even know what to call you anymore. Friend? First love? Almost?
I've written this letter in my head a hundred times, and each time it ends differently. Sometimes with anger. Sometimes with ache. But always… with something left unsaid.
So here it is. All of it.
You hurt me. More than you know. And maybe more than you ever meant to.
I don't think you were trying to be cruel. I don't think you woke up one day and decided to shatter me. But you did — in small ways, in soft moments, in silences that screamed louder than words.
There was a time when hearing your name made my whole day feel brighter. And now? It just makes my chest feel heavy. Not because I hate you — but because I once held you in a place where I thought nothing could break us.
You touched parts of me I wasn't ready to give. Not just my body — but my trust, my heart, my sense of worth. I said yes when I should've said no. Not because I didn't feel scared or unsure — but because I wanted you to stay. I thought that's what love was: giving more, even when you're not sure what's left.
But it wasn't love, was it? Not really. Maybe for me it was. For you… I don't know what it was.
What hurts the most isn't what you did. It's that when I finally tried to hold onto you in an honest, open way — when I finally said what I felt — you didn't reach back. You let me fall. And then blamed me for the bruise.
And still, I stayed. I swallowed my pain and dressed it up as silence. I convinced myself that being close to you, even if it wasn't what I deserved, was better than losing you completely.
I know that was a mistake now.
I don't hate you. I don't wish you harm. In fact, some part of me still wishes you happiness — not because you earned it, but because I don't want to carry bitterness where love used to live.
But I won't let myself be your almost anymore. I won't shrink myself to fit into your maybe.
I'm letting go now — not because I've forgotten, but because I finally remember who I am without you.
You won't ever read this. And that's okay.
Some truths are just meant to be written… not received.
Still, I loved you. And I'm learning to love myself more now.
Goodbye.
— Me