I’ve written this part over and over baby. I’ve written it to you on paper, in an email, in a text message. I’ve written and deleted. I’ve almost pressed send. I’ve almost posted. Every time I get to the bottom, to the end, where I’m supposed to wrap this whole thing up, I wonder what happens when you read it. I know that the words won’t matter. You’re not ready yet, you said that. You told me you wouldn’t rush it. I don’t know whether you’re playing me or you’re telling the truth when you say you miss me. Rush what? Ready for what?

When I imagine you getting to “I love you”, I see you sigh, take a short, sharp intake of breath and feel your heart beat a little faster. But I know that your pulse will resume it’s steady pace and you’ll go back to her and you’ll stuff that little message in a shoe box or an archive or you’ll toss it away. My missing you is stuffed in a shoe box too. It taps away like The Tell Tale Heart when I want it to be silent.

It’s fucking loud. It’s loud when I’m underneath a new lover and he or she doesn’t kiss me like you did. It’s loud when I wonder what you’re doing all day, wishing for the text message rally we’d have about everything and nothing. It’s loud when the pain in my knee reminds me that I should really get a massage or do the exercises you suggested. It’s loud when I see a man who looks annoyingly like you walking down the street, hand in hand with a long legged lovely just like yours. It’s so fucking loud.

I don’t see how you’re still in my thoughts now, having seen you happy with your girl who I can no longer refer to as “new” for the past…what is it? Two years now? Congratulations by the way. I would think you must be happy, but you’ve told me otherwise. I don’t understand. I really don’t. You told me not to wait – but what other option do I have when you dangle a carrot like that? I’m a sucker for hope and romance and you just offered me both.

I’ve spent a long time trying to rationalize why I love you. I’ve been with people since you that look great for me on paper but don’t fit me just the way you did, despite both our rough edges that jostled often. I told myself I shouldn’t love you – I listed your faults and your failings and I listed why I wasn’t the best match for you in return. I read them over and over and I added to the list and told my friends why the present was for the best. But this list is bullshit: love isn’t logical.

I don’t care about the extremely polarized views we have on almost every topic. I care most about how you cared for me and you made me feel beautiful and intelligent and I wanted the best for you. You’re so beautiful. You have no idea how beautiful you are. I don’t think I’ve ever told you how beautiful I think you are. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think you’d believe me. Would you believe me if I told you today?

Most days I tell myself that it’s better that you don’t see me now. It’s better that you don’t come back to me – I’m not the girl I was before. After everything that’s happened, I still don’t think I’m good enough for you. I still believe you only wanted me for my body. That body no longer exists. You chose to leave when my body was better – what hope is there now?

So this is where it ends, baby, you’ve read it all now. I’ve said it all and I pressed send. Just one last thing: I love you. I hope you don’t read this. If you do, put it in a shoe box and lock it away.