I just had the cry I should have had in October 2010, when you left my life.
You did what you had to and you’re better for it. I was too overwhelmed with the loss to do anything but take all that–all you meant to me and all you meant period–and stuff it into a box and put it in a corner. And leave it there. Where it stayed for two years.
Until today. Until this morning when your message came to me at work. You moved on, and you are happy. Engaged. Mazel tov.
Your letter needed a response. I’m sure you don’t agree. But it opened that box I mentioned, and let everything out again. So I wrote. But not *everything*. I’m not a masochist.
I am the long-lost boy, you were the girl of my dreams. And if I were the writer, it would have had the sort of soppy ending we both liked, to be honest.
But i’m not Harry and you’re not Sally and life got messy and stupid and lost.
I wish you love and more. But I won’t be at the wedding, whenever that comes. Why would you even think to invite me? Especially given what you really think of me.
You weren’t the only one who was hurt.