Dear Future Lover, this is an explanation as to why you’ll never be good enough:

Hours of holding her were trapped inside of my brain like prisoners of war. Her eyes held mine even after I found her, broken and bruised on the New York concrete, between the two apartment buildings. The lurking of depression was ever present in her veins, her eyes, her hands. Every night I whispered into the darkness,
“****, Lettie. I miss you.”
Even after months had pulled across the void. We never did believe in God, especially her. My Lettie. She was opinionated fire, and I was the silent ice to her heat. But after she had distinguished herself, I was the one left melting alone. Lettie had never bothered to even tell me goodbye, but I knew she wouldn’t have; she loved being her own mystery and no matter how much I had hated it; she had left her answers behind for me to find. All of our memories were bundled up inside of me to behold alone; I had years of lone nights under my belt, but none of those could come close to losing Lettie and holding her memories within me. You may be asking why she did what she did, and I don’t think anyone will ever have the answer. Not even me, her last words carrier. I’d like to think that she didn’t mean to do it; Yeah, I’m pathetic, I’d like to think that my best friend accidentally died. But Lettie had a death wish, and despite worrying, I had let her flirt with the idea of it. Lettie had hidden her depression from everyone but me, and I had wrapped it up with a bow and presented it back to her, a look of worry on my face. But I did nothing. I watched her battle, her death was inevitable, but that was because of me.

I remember holding her, Lettie, and her whispering into my neck: “I’m trapped, you know. But you’re here. That’s all I need.” This was on one of her bad days, and she had spent it with me, curled into my body as we sat in my old truck. This was the first time she had kissed me, my Lettie. I had known her for years, and I was always here when she needed to throw her words at someone who cared. But that day had been so different, Lettie had leaned in too close, and she brushed her lips against mine in the softest of kisses. I looked into her eyes then, and I knew my Lettie was gone. The old Lettie, the one who had showed me happiness, wine, and her mother’s cigarettes at age 15. Lettie was my only friend, and I had vowed to keep her mine until she had died. But at the time, I hadn’t known that would have been so soon. That day was the day I knew Lettie was crumbling into nothingness, and she was too far gone for me to glue her together once more. The first day I had felt her lips on mine, and I had felt her beauty radiate through me; Lettie, my Lettie, was leaving me too soon.

I remember her first spiral downwards. Her boyfriend, Tom, was the cause of the fall. Despite hurting every time I saw them together, I supported her decisions to be with him; he was everything I would never be. But when Lettie had ran, screaming, into my room one night, I knew I should have saved her(my first mistake). I had held her while her tears soaked into my clothes, my heart, my being.
“Lettie, Lettie, Lettie…” was all I could think to say as she screamed into my shoulder.
“He cheated, that *******! I saw him, and he looked me in the face and told me, “You’re psychotic.” after I punched him in the mouth!” she screeched louder, and I flinched.
“Lettie, please stop. You’re okay, I’m here. I won’t leave, I promise.” and she grasped onto me and squeezed. This was the first time Lettie had fallen apart, and I had fixed her with ease, but that was only the first.

Lettie was more than a friend to me. Lettie was me, all of me, my existence, my being; Lettie was literal life for me. I never thought I could love her anymore than I had when she kissed me, but the first time we made love had changed my thoughts completely. Yes, my best friend and I, we had made love. My first, surely not her’s.

You see, Lettie had a reputation for sleeping with the guys throughout our school. Don’t assume her a *****, she was broken beyond repair. She only wanted someone to hold her in her raw beauty, to whisper how beautiful she was in her nest of tangled hair, to feel skin on skin in the morning light. Lettie had searched for far too long, but had never found that. Until us happened.

It was in my truck, perched upon a hill over-looking the town’s cemetery, which was Lettie’s favorite spot. She had leaned into me, her breath filling my nostrils, and I turned. The thoughts in my mind revolved around one word: mine. Lettie was mine. I pressed my lips into hers, and a small sigh equal to that of a bird’s wings escaped her mouth and landed in mine. My hands were entangled in her hair and before long, we were skin to skin. I didn’t let her go, and we lay intertwined like yarn for hours after. I whispered the love I held within myself for her into her neck, and she let tears build maps along her skin. My Lettie, why did you search for so long when I was right in front of you?

I should have known that nothing is forever. But I didn’t expect my “nothing” to end so quickly. The day after we made love, the day after I confessed in Lettie’s sweat filled hair: “I love you”, the day after I held Lettie in my arms and let her cry the world out into my shoulder, was when I found Lettie in between apartment buildings, her limbs at odd angles. I remember Lettie telling me she was always cold, but when I tried to cover her, she would push away and cry. I now know that she meant her emotions were cold, her heart, her eyes. The greed of society had collected Lettie and dispersed her throughout registers in old gas stations. Lettie, my Lettie, had ran for far too long. Her lungs were damaged and decayed, every breath she took was cheating the Grim Reaper. Lettie, my Lettie, had died without me. Lettie, my Lettie, had looked through my heart even when her soul no longer frequented her eyes while she was crumpled on the New York concrete. Lettie, my Lettie, had made love to my soul, just to tear her’s away. I lost myself along with her. I’m a living, breathing shell of the hollow heart I carry within me. I don’t think you’ll ever understand me…. I don’t think you’ll ever look into my eyes and see the real me, the one Lettie took with her.

…. And I know, I know, you’ll look into my face and say,
“Asher, I love you.” and I will not be able to begin to tell you how you’ll never have her smell, her eyes, her heart, her soul. You’ll never know the spot when we first found ourselves in my beat up truck on the hill over-looking the town’s cemetery. You’ll never hear the little snort in her laugh when she gets too excited. You’ll never replay that small sigh in your head every ******* night while your mind reels and your sobs rip your throat apart.

“Asher, I love you.”
And I’ll never be able to explain why you’ll never be good enough.