Writing to you because we always seemed to make sense of each other's musings. Reflecting on a chapter of my life—one that still feels ongoing whenever my mind drifts to you—is quite the stupefying task. Looking back, there were flaws, of course, but I probably would have endured until the animosity was mutual. In that sense, discarding me was a parting gift! Seeing you in LA gave me quite a chuckle, but I can't help wonder what your life looks like without me weighing you down. Did you weep to Olivia Dean as I did? Do you drown intense emotions and seek validation through hedonistic desires? Do you excavate memories of us with every stroke? Anyway, all that isn't really important, I guess. In the end, you weren’t that destructive, and we eased each other’s boredom for a while. I was probably much worse, but who’s keeping score? Time fades details; I was probably much more miserable than I realize in hindsight. That's the thing about nostalgia— even the most painful memories can be sifted through with fondness. Who would've thought that all the longing and pain would fade into such indifferent novelty, like reflecting on the B38 through Brooklyn? That kind of novelty when a toddler wows you with their amazing backflip. Much love, not that you’ll ever read this.
