I don’t fear the tears that come at night. Not anymore.

My mind used to become so diluted when I thought of you, but now I find myself habituated with fresh feelings of anguish. I brush my teeth, floss, change into my pajamas, set my alarm- then I cry. No longer do I force the tears to quit. Long ago I kissed these feelings of enrapturing emotion goodbye.

Now I cry just for the sake of crying.

When you first sent your letters, I would instantly feel good again. I’d feel anything and everything concurrently, caught up in a whirlwind of distracting thoughts. I’d whisk myself into my room, slam the doors, and plop myself down onto my favorite chair. I would rip open the letter - starstruck and oblivious - then start to read your words carefully. I even re-read a few. A smile would sporadically appear, hinting at my enjoyment. Eventually, my family started noticing how excited I became; I started to calm myself when your letters arrived, out of some sense of secrecy.

You’d write to me about being me, or being better than me. Saying things like “If you’re going to be weird, be confident about it, love!” or “You should be more open-minded! Your brains won’t fall out, silly!” You’d teach me new words, like kalon and cafuné, then challenge me to write back to you using them. In your signature fashion, each letter was signed with an XO, accented by your . . . sillage.

You were traveling abroad, and we were in love. That’s the word I challenged you to write back to me. And when you did, you made me feel like Casanova. With each little joke that you texted or wrote me, with each little XO at bedtime, I felt loved and needed and humored and adored.

Even at times when I didn’t receive letters for weeks at a time, I knew we shared a recondite connection. There was always something carefree about the way we talked, especially before you went off abroad. Those three months before you left were almost tranquil. All of the hugs, kisses, cuddles; the simple things we enjoyed so shamelessly.

Then you returned from Ireland, and you returned with beastly news of rejection. News which hurt me deeper than any bee sting or dog bite, news which maimed me in a far different way; you told me you no longer loved me. Suddenly, I was no longer your Casanova- no longer able to receive your love. And although you said “We can still be friends,” with your strangely false, empathetic, smile on, I knew there was no hope in believing we would ever be friends again. I had committed too much. Somehow, I knew that there wouldn’t be any way to talk you out of your decision, no matter how hard I tried to convince you otherwise.

You had given me the impression that we would share something unique. Maybe even cliché. Because through our bond, we had found trust and security. Because we both were looking for it. We needed more than life had given us, so we had found refuge in each others comments on society and the functions of life. Because as we turned more mental every day, we couldn’t quite function within the parameters of it.

Afterwards, I felt inspired to isolate myself. Because nobody can hurt me once I’m alone. So I stayed alone.

I would stay up, late into the silky recesses of the night, finding sanctum in literature, movies, and solitaire; h---, even crosswords puzzles would do. Anything at all, because I just needed something to distract me. When I wasn’t at school or finishing up homework, I would retract back to some book or obscure puzzle. For the first time in my life, I learned how to solve a Rubiks Cube; I constantly found myself dazzled by its simple challenge.

It took me awhile before I finally could see it, but I’ve found that I regret none of this. I had blinded myself, turning anything that could distract me into a vice. I didn’t want to face the thoughts that came to mind when I thought of you, and what we used to be. Because with you, I could block out what society has done to me- but now I’m starting to realise that I have no choice. Because even if I distract myself, I’ll find that I’ll never truly be me again. Just another lost soul, squirming around in the dirt. If I neglect my life and my aspirations, there won’t be any more of me left. I have to start opening myself once more, allowing myself to experience society again. I played with the magic that was your love, trying to disconnect myself from this abyssal world, and I wasn’t ready for it. The fact of the matter is no one is ready for it. I had to stumble through many frivolous spells to learn it, but I have found now that life is precious- every part of it.e

Love has given up on me. So have you. But it’s getting better. I’m starting to see again, and I’ve come to acknowledge the facts. More and more I find myself tasting new experiences, accepting who I am and what society has done to me. How it reflects my character, and how I regard it has totally changed. I needed that change. It took a lot to make it happen, it took you to trigger it all, but that’s life’s sarcasm for you.

Now I hope you can see the same. That you can find for yourself the new experiences, and see how society has changed you, but for the better. You have some traumas, assuredly, but they’ve helped shape the person you are today. There’s no shame in that, there’s only shame in hiding it away- that’s what I’ve found. Take it from someone who has been crushed and diced and injected with the foul serum of life; you don’t want to be hiding it away. You signed your letters with Xs and Os, and even if you never meant them, you felt something- use those feelings. Make a connection. Make a strong connection back to life, and find trust and security in yourself. Stop procrastinating, and accept yourself. I am the better for knowing you, each part of you. I can’t imagine where I would be without you.

Because of you, I don’t fear the tears that come at night. Not anymore.

Regards,
Your EX-O