Dear you,

I wonder what you think of me.

I know that’s absurd—I’ve long stopped caring what people say about me. But I figured, after everything we’ve been through, that I can’t fault myself for curiosity.

Some days, I wake up feeling fine. I put on my favorite shirt (mine, not yours), buy a nice drink before work. Or, if it’s a weekend, I make brunch and hang out at the book club. I thought it’d be different going without you, but everyone’s still as nice as ever. I look fine to them, so they haven’t really brought you up except in passing. I still tense a little, but I suppose that’s to be expected.

Other times, usually when it’s raining—other times, I find myself alone in my apartment—the one you haven’t been to. I find myself thinking. If we still lived together, how would you make this tiny place your own? Would you put your souvenirs on display next to mine? I still have your seashell. If I set it next to my pen holder and squint—and this helps if it’s raining because the sky is darker, which makes everything a little blurrier—so if I put your seashell by the pen holder and tilt my head just so, I can almost imagine it.

And for a moment there, my apartments feels a tiny bit more familiar.

Is that love?

I know that unconditional love is loving someone in spite of their absurdity. I know that some people would prefer to find love in mutual flawlessness. Not me, and certainly not you. But that’s pretty much all I know. In the end, that’s how much anyone really knows how to say in words. They learn the rest through practice, through finding a home in each other.

Well, I can’t really do that anymore. So it’s just me, and my thoughts, and the afternoon rain.

It used to make me happy. Rain, I mean. You know that. Still does, in a way, but only after I’ve ripped my whole heart out. So there’s that.

Again. I wonder what you think of me. Sometimes, I want you to fondly reminisce of me like I do you. Sometimes, I want you to hate me, if only so you have the strength to move on. Romance novels would call that selfless, but to be honest on those days I don't feel anything except sorry for myself.

Other times, I want you to pine for me forever. Then I’ll see you at our bookshop that you don’t go to anymore, or maybe I’ll branch out and go to a few bars (unlikely), and we will fall into each other’s arms as we have before. This is selfish, if fun to think about; I would never want for it to happen in real life, though, because time and again the only thing I truly wish for is your happiness.

Is that love?

I don’t know.

Love,

Me