Dear you,
I wasn't wrong for thinking you were what's best for me, it was your fault when you decided that you weren't. When you decided that you were too ****** up, too complicated. As if I'm not. As if it's not the both of us. As if it's only you. Every day is harder than the other because even on my busiest days, I still go back home to find the thought of you, waiting for me. Waiting for its turn to consume my mind. Waiting for the attention that it demands. I still go back home and hope it's you. I still do. And you'll never understand just what you meant to me and how you truly did hurt me and for the very first time, I had the strength to admit it. And you had the audacity to leave.
I didn't say it because I needed you to apologize, or to look down on me. I said it because you matter, and we matter, and we had to find a way to fix our situation instead of leaving it as it is. Maybe it meant a little more to me and a little less to you. Maybe I'm sitting here, hurting, and you're a thousand miles away, with not a single thought on your mind.
When someone tells you that you hurt them, you don't get up and leave. You make an effort to become a better person. That's what I was willing to do for you. Because I knew I had my issues, a wide range of them, but instead of acting on them, I decided to get over myself and be good to you while I still can. I don't know what I felt for you, but I knew that I felt something and that it wasstrong enough to bring us apart. And if you ever fou another, know that their love will be nothing like mine. I always used writing as a way of tolerating the intolerant. And here I am writing for the sake of tolerating you.