I can tell that you wonder about me. Not enough to ask me, or to care beyond a reserved pondering, but I know you’ve spent time on it. You look into me, wondering what I think. Wondering if I’m still who you used to know.
I was never who you used to know. This girl, the girl who hides from people, hides from her emotions, is the girl I’ve always been. The girl who needs a friend but doesn’t want one, who wants a friend but doesn’t need one. The girl who gets hurt. The girl who hurts herself. The girl who locks herself in her room.
I miss you. There? Happy? I’ve admitted it. I miss being your friend, I miss being comfortable.
But, I wasn’t. It was all an illusion. I clung to you like oil, but I didn’t know you were water. I spent my time convincing myself that you were as reliant on me as I was on you, but that simply was not true. It couldn’t be true. I’m not that important.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I shocked you with my rage. I’m sorry I’m not as human as most people wish. Or as robotic as others wish. I’m sorry that I don’t know how to be best for anyone, particularly you.
I’m sorry that my leaving didn’t hurt you. You’re kind enough that I think you wanted it to. But I wasn’t essential. You didn’t cry. I cried.
This is a shitty letter.