It was a sign of how much I loved you. My heart contracting, trapped in the deathly-grasp of an invisible fist; my breath, thrown against the inside of my chest, caught and held in my lungs like a prisoner of war; my stomach floating and turning, crawling inside of me every time I saw you, every time my eyes beheld you, meeting your face… your eyes… your smile… It was a sign of how blind I was. Your imperfections were unimportant. Not only that, they were nonexistent. Everything about you was beautiful. I accepted you; adored you; wanted you with every part of me. You fascinated me: you were so much more than what other people thought, what they saw. You were different. I wanted you to love me; I wanted so much for you to love me, to hold me, to be with me always. But I realize this is impossible. I still love you—of course I still love you. You know this, and I hope you’ll forgive me when I say that I will always love you. You were everything to me, and if given the opportunity, I am sure you would be everything once again, but, as for now, it has never appeared more obvious to me that you don’t believe I should be yours. It isn’t easy for me. This is the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to articulate: I feel my mind working so hard to produce words that fit, words that flow… and even so, I fear they appear in a jumbled mess. I love you. I love you. I love you. It’s taken me so long to call it love. You were the first I truly loved, and it hurts. It hurts to love you. So I have to let you go. Since I’m being honest, I’ll admit, I want to be with you more than I could possibly say. But still, it’s not what I want most. I wish it was; I wish I could be more selfish. But truly, it’s not in my nature. I love you. I have never wanted anything more than for you to be happy. I hope you find her; I hope she loves you as much as I do. I hope you love her with all of you, with every inch of yourself, of your heart… with every aspect of your soul. I hope you love her. I hope you love her like you never loved me.
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