[Something I wrote for someone. Doesn’t need any other introduction. It is what is.]
Right now, after today, I realize that life is short.
And so, I owe you an apology.
I don’t want to cause any more problems for you with your boyfriend, so I’m not going to bother being inappropriate and sharing with you prose I’d written in a vain attempt to win you over or whatever.
I owe you an apology because the affection I have for you has clearly been some sort of strain. I won’t pretend to know what it might be. There is no point in doing so. But I’m selfish. I delude myself into thinking life has somehow cheated me by not delivering into my hands exactly what it is I desire.
So when it became apparent that it was never going to happen with you, my demeanour shifted, and I’m quite sure I treated you poorly. Many other aspects of my life weren’t helping, and the swallowing, hungry pit of depression was eating at my heart.
It’s not that I wished you weren’t around. I just wished that I didn’t care for you in the way that I do because it was becoming a burden. A burden I was carrying up a very steep hill with no destination in sight.
When I care for people, I like to do things for them to demonstrate my affection. I want it to be clear that I never did anything for you insincerely. I meant every word I ever said, and let your small delights fuel my happiness. Even if it was just from a pack of jelly beans.
Exploring the mind and heart of someone I have such affection for is the only reason I’m here. So again, selfishly, when I thought that might have been taken away, I reacted poorly.
It was easier for me to text you than it was to face you. I do it often and it’s upsettingly self-destructive, because eventually, the object of my affection just gets sick of my mood swings, and only ever sees me as a dark, brooding, hulking beast, rather than the all-dancing all-singing chuckle-factory I actually am.
I never really thought we were ‘the same person’ or ‘very alike’ or whatever I said in[omitted]the day before you left. But when you replied, telling me so simply that it couldn’t be true, it stabbed me on the inside because I knew then that I had completely skewed your view of me, and at this point there is little-to-no way of coming back.
I feel we have traits in common, even though I’ve probably buried most of them with my melancholia. You must have seen the same, to have spent the time with me that you did. I won’t be so arrogant as to assume how you feel, but that is as far as I’ll go.
I’m sorry I sprung this on you. I’ll probably read it again in a few days when I forget that life is short, and slam my palm into my face and cringe. But right now, after today, life is short.
The only thing I have left to say is that when I spent time with you, you made me happy. Affection is like that, huh? It’s bred from selfishness because people just like the way other people make them feel.
When I was with you, no matter how short, simple, or mundane it was, you made me feel happy.
I’m just sorry I couldn’t return the favour.
You deserve better than that.