Final Letter → Nuclear Seasons
Maybe I should start with an apology. Maybe I should start with an explanation. Maybe I shouldn't even be doing this in the first place. I don't know. I've never been one to give things much forethought, but I've been thinking about writing you for a month now.
It's Valentine's day. What a stupid holiday, you know? Why should one day out of a whole year be dedicated to how much you love someone? I step back and I look at it like that and just laugh at how stupid people can be, not that I'm much better. Even before I left, I'd spent a lot of time planning today for the two of us. I'd never really had a Valentine before, and I wanted to make this one all special and shit stuff, I guess. Conformity at its best, right? Love makes you stupid.
I miss you. God, I miss you. Every second of everyday I spend thinking about you, and what I gave up, and all I'm probably missing. Your birthday, all those lazy weekends. Sometimes I look up at the sky and it's weirdly.. comforting for me because I know you're under the same sun and stars and moon. You're still there. And maybe you don't think about me, and maybe you've moved on, but you're there. And you're mine, and for a while, you loved me back, even though that's one thing about you I'll never, ever understand. Why me?
Life's not so bad here, honestly. I spent some time in Munich and learned a bit of German (Heil Hitler! No.. that was bad. Scratch that), and I've just sort of spent the rest of the time ghosting around Europe. It's amazing what all you see in the world when you just take a second to open your eyes. There's so much more to life than the group you choose to hang around, and the four walls that surround you when you sleep every night. Remember that.
I just wanted you to know you're still in my thoughts and every other part of me, even if what I did to you was unforgivable. I never meant to leave you like this. I didn't want to leave anyone behind because I knew I'd get to this point eventually--I don't do longterm very well--but somehow you got tangled in this messy web that's Miki Malik, and a weird, cynical part of me wants to give you some sort of consolation prize for it. Congratulations, you lived.
I know this isn't fair of me, and I'm still debating on whether or not I should even mail this. I love you enough to know when to let go, and that's something I've never admitted to someone--ever.
I suppose I should end this with an apology. I'm sorry I couldn't be what you needed, but you deserve the best and I think you and I both know I'm just not it. I hope you still think of me when you're married, and you have kids, and you watch your kids have kids, and you grow old and grey with whatever lucky person has the privilege of calling you theirs. I know I'm selfish for wanting that, and it's more than I could ever fairly ask of you, but hey, I'm selfish by nature. I'm a Malik, remember?
This is getting long and I don't want to take up anymore of your time. My last request is that you burn this letter if I actually do decide to mail it. I don't know, maybe in some twisted, symbolic way it can be our last goodbyes.
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