I Wish I Was Able to Hate You, But I Have This Instead

This is because you asked. And I told you I wouldn’t.

If I could write you a letter, this is what it might say:

I don’t know how we got where we are. If I’m honest, I was never sure where we were. The nature of our relationship was, to say the least, unclear.

I think we both preferred it that way. No definitions meant no rules. No rules meant no obligations. But somewhere along the way, I developed expectations. And floating on their glossy surface was hope.

I know it wasn’t right.
You should know . . . it wasn’t intentional.

An outsider looking in on us could never understand. They may try and rationalize it, they may say you hurt me. The truth of the matter was that I hurt myself. Our unclarity, if you’ll permit me to invent words, was clear. An odd connection was forged that couldn’t be maintained for reasons neither of us would divulge. Not to each other and, most likely, not to ourselves.

You never truly denied me anything I asked for. But I never asked for anything I wanted. I feel the urge to ask now. But it feels like it’s too late.

Though I shouldn’t say this: I miss what we had.
Whatever that was. Today, I would say, it was the promise of something. But maybe yesterday, the word would have been idea. The hope is still floating but the possibilities are dwindling.

So today, when I’m driving, I’ll think of the letter I denied you – and posted anyway.
I’ll play the song that you don’t know reminds me of you.
And I’ll get a little farther from you, as far as miles go, but the distance between us will remain the same.

Realize that reality is what you make it.