Dear beloved;

It's been awhile since we've talked, although not for lack of efforts on my part. I miss you more than words can say, yet hate your very being. I don't think that I can truly be mad at you. For you were nothing but yourself in the end. But everytime that I see you, you make my blood boil, yet somewhere there's always a sigh.

You were antisocial, a hermit, if you will. I lost my best friend, and my boyfriend, and my heart all in the same week, and you were there to support my every step and every move. You guided me through the toughest year of my life. You taught me the left and right of politics. The true meaning behind good literature. You gave me something to look forward to everyday.

You, with your uncanny wit, and cynicism, always knew how to make me laugh. How to make me smile. We would talk on the phone for hours every night, do you remember? I was the one to break you out of your shell. You shared your views on Bush ("a jackass" you'd proclaim), and on religeon (Remember how you had analyzed the Bible to a point where you figured that you could pretty much do anything you wanted, exempting murder and rape, and you could still get into heaven because you were a god-fearing man).

We'd sit and watch movies together, for hours on end. We'd cry together over things like 9-11 and the Columbia crash. We'd laugh, and talk, and cuddle, and were perfection.

You made me love you.

And my love for you grew, day after day, week after week, and eventually, month after month. It killed me to see you flirting with my friends, and it killed me to see your hearat broken over and over again by the same girl. It killed me, because I knew that you'd never think of me in that way. That you would always think of me as the sister you never had.

And yet, one day, as we lay together on the couch, watching the Rain Man, and joking around, you said that you had loved me. It was done in a joking way, and I realize it, but the moment was so perfect. So tempting. You had your arms around me, as I lay against your shoulder. I was mere centimeters away from your face, and all I could sense was your body next to mine.

My heart was pounding, my sould was filled with hope. All I wanted was to forget everything. Forget your crush, forget my worries, forget everything there was to forget. Softly, I said your name, and you turned towards me, your lips grazing against mine.

That was it. It felt as though all things good had been released, and all I had ever known was you. The smell of you, the taste of you. Everything that was in and of you. I anted to cry, I wanted to laugh. And as we lay there, deprived of oxygen and clinging to eachother for dear life, a thought occured to you.

You pulled away and left me there. You left the house, you left my life.

You wouldn't answer my phonecalls, or look me in the eye when we did meet. You became the hermit that I had originally known you to be.

I miss you. And while this isn't really a letter of rage, it's a letter of something. I don't really know. It's a rant though. I can tell you that much.

I want you to read this. I want you to know how much you hurt me. I want you to know that I still care about you, even if you don't care about me. I know you may need breathing room, but it's been nearly a year now. Just talk to me. Give me some closure. Something. Even if it's something so simple as saying hi to me in the halls every morning.

Yours,

theparisian

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