i just want to tell you everything but i know it’s not a good idea because i’ll say it, and then what? nothing will change, except i’ll maybe feel worse and you’ll maybe feel worse. i still want to give you the book i made. i never put a cover on it because i didn’t have the time. i can’t tell whether it’d be too hurtful, though. and maybe i want to keep it, so i can page through it sometime later and do the thing where i bring intense sentimental pain and longing into my heart because i’m super fuckin lame like that.
at least i’m happy otherwise. i really am. i have beautiful friends and an adoring family and i’m happy with my major and my work and i have a fantastic internship and am gonna live in a great brooklyn neighborhood, and it’s all okay. i just wish—i really, really wish—that i could share all this happiness with you and you could see me being this happy. i bet you remember me crying all the time, and that’s it. work can be your passion, but not your happiness. a friend told me that. i think i live by it.
maybe we were too young for all of this, or maybe i just fell deeper, or maybe we felt the same and our surroundings just fucked it up. i know deep down it was for the best. i “gotta forget what i feel and remember what i deserve”, said the instagram post from the girl i follow who went to my old high school. still, though, before i go to bed i think about you, and then i think about how stupid it is that i still have the one photo booth picture of us on my magnet board, although now it’s half-covered with a CVS prescription. change happens slowly.
fuck. in the end, maybe i cared too much. maybe i was so excited to fall for my best friend that i fell too hard too fast. it’s okay, though. i’d so much rather feel deeply and get hurt than feel nothingness all the fucking time.
is it bad to tell you how i still feel? probably. i bet you can read this fuck whatever i just