I said I wouldn't write about you but then I saw what she wrote and my heart just dropped and my shoulders sagged. What I want more than anything is just to talk to you again, to get to know you better, and for you to see that it's not her, it's me okay? I want to scream it to you at the top of my lungs IT'S ME IT'S ME IT'S ME so that it sticks in your head and so you don't forget. I haven't let my hope get this high in so long and what she wrote just brought them crashing down on top of my head. Now everytime I read it my eyes fog up and I hate her I hate her I hate her all over again.

This isn't very poetic or even well written, but it's emotional and that's all that matters.

Our silence spoke volumes.

I talked to her

('I worry about you.')

and I talked to him

('I'm sorry.')

about the things that had been worrying me the most

and I told them what I was going to tell him

and they told me what I knew I wanted to hear

and I don't know whether I'm okay or not

or if it's what I wanted.

(We went driving, and barely spoke the whole way there or back. It was the longest 5km drive of my life.)

Dear you (and by you I mean all of you)

Please don't do that again.
You have no idea how it affected me.
That when you say those things, I keep it inside of me and it waits, grows, festers.
Don't you know I am insecure and unsure enough all ready, and am always doubting myself?
That what you said wouldn't and couldn't be easily shrugged off and forgotten like maybe you thought it would?
My sister's boyfriend was right when he said "They had no right to say that to you."
You didn't have any right to.

Dear You.

I’m sorry that your life’s a mess, and I’m sorry that things don’t work out and I’m sorry that you used to (and still could be, I’ll probably never know) be so sad all the time, and I’m sorry that you can’t find that someone yet (but neither can I, so you’re not alone in being alone ), and I’m sorry that I don’t give you the reaction that you want from me ( I just can’t bring myself to, even though I want to sometimes with my whole being), and I’m sorry that sometimes you feel lost (I seem to feel lost more than others, but maybe it’s because I never tell anyone and neither do they, but I’m working on it I really am can’t you tell? I told you how I felt before when you asked me if I noticed how they were changing even though they said they wouldn’t and I told you I did and that it made me feel lost too and that I didn’t fit in, but when you asked me I didn’t tell you the truth - that you have changed, you’re not the same, you’re different and I couldn’t tell you that because sometimes when people ask for the honest truth and you know that it will hurt them or that they won’t like the answer then it should be ok to tell a lie, to reassure them that no they haven’t changed at all, that they’re still the same person, even if everyone’s changing even if I’ve changed, because really, I have, I could tell you how I’m sad a lot of the time when I’m near the others, because I can feel how different things are and I can feel just how lost things are since they happened, and how I am changing, re orientating myself around them and refocusing the lenses of my eyes to how I see other people, I’m becoming a drifter, floating from place to place trying to figure out where I can place my anchors so that I don’t continue to drift away until I am nothing but a spot in the sky, and I could tell you how I know things won’t be the same, because they could never go back to how they were after everything that’s happened, and I can only remember how they were before everything was turned on it’s side, before the earth began to spin the other way, before that happened because for me, that was what started it all, the butterfly that had the effect on my world) and I’m sorry that I can’t tell you all this because if you want the truth I don’t think you’d know how to handle it and you’d just react the way you know I don’t like and that would put us back to where we were a few weeks ago - not speaking because you didn’t understand - but maybe you did understand, these days I’m just not sure how your brain works - I never was sure - and these days I am less sure than ever.

I wish I could, but I could never tell you this.

From Me.

The History of Love - Nicole Kraus.