DEAR MON ÉTOILE,
✧ ° ｡——. though i tried to resist, i still want it all.
I’d like to think that I have some sense of self-restraint when it comes to you; which is precisely why I’m keeping this letter tucked between the pages of Oscar Wilde and out of sight once I finish writing it, just to resist the urge of sending it when I know it’ll likely end up making me look like even more of a knob head in the long run. But-- maybe that’s not self-restraint at all, is it? Maybe it’s weakness. Because I know reading this letter would evoke some sort of response from you, and well-- fuck. That’s scary, innit? Keeping things tucked away for years-- even from you, you who knows literally every double-edged sword of a secret that I’ve collected and kept quiet for however long-- only to make myself vulnerable for you all over again, in a much more terrifying way than just slivers of skin and whispers of fear. This feels a lot bigger than that -- a lot more loaded. And my chest hurts from it, almost.
I love you.
It’s almost scary how easy that was to write just now, given my deep-seeded refusal to mumble it aloud at any point up until now. But the funny thing is ( funny or sad, depending on how you choose to look at it, I suppose ), this isn’t the first time I’ve written those three particular words down. The margins of my secondary school notebooks are all littered with scribbles of the same fucking three-word cliche, written in place of notes and reminders, and taking up all of the blank space in between scribbled swirls of your name and-- fuck that’s pathetic, innit? Probably about as pathetically cliche as when I first took a pen and scratched the sentiment out; right after our first time together -- when I’d strip myself bare for you in more ways than one. And I was shaking-- fuck, I was shaking from the vulnerability of it all. And you just...you held me; whispered words of reassurance in my ear, and never once lessened your grip on my hand. I remember feeling those words clawing away at my chest long after you’d fallen asleep, leaving me to my own thoughts. They were caught in my throat, a knot slowly forming around each and every syllable as I tried desperately to swallow it back. The urge to blurt the phrase out didn’t settle until I’d located a pen, scribbling out the words against the palm of my hand in a haste, breathing slowing down to a steady rhythm soon after.
I woke up the next morning with ink smeared into my skin, and my heart more full than I’d felt it been in a while. But, as you’re probably well aware, I never repeated those words to you. I bit it back down for another full year, and then I left. I was stupid and scared and I left. And I know you’ve forgiven me for all of this shit-- but I still don’t think I’ve quite forgiven myself; not when your trust is no longer something I’m privileged to keep, not when it’s something I’ll likely never be able to obtain from you again.
And you wanna know what the most fucked up thing about me writing this is? I don’t know if I’ll ever end up saying any of this to you-- dunno if you’d even believe me if I did. But this-- this is something, innit? Because I’m not just-- I’m not just doodling down silly phrases that I hardly know the meaning of. I’m accepting it. I’m accepting the fact that I’m in love with you, even now, and that I’ve fucked it all up. Still trying not to hope for too much, though-- m’just tiptoeing all along the edges of whatever it is we’ve managed to establish at this point, and trying not to hold out for more. I still want it, though. Fuck-- I want all of it, even. And holy shit is that terrifying.
signed, a c o w a r d.
