My dear, this is the first and last time I will write you a love letter. No, not a love letter, but a page filled with words that were once my thoughts.
I've imagined living without you countless times, imagined tucking you away in one of the corners of the Earth, simply so that I don't have to look at the stains I've left you with, stains that will never be erased. I've tainted you, tainted your pureness. But were you ever pure? Were you ever mine? I think not, I know not. Yet I selfishly kept you close to my heart, just so that I could have a few seconds of love, joy, hate. I kept you from the world, I showed you off.
You were my first true friend.
I can't express the love I held for you, can't express the way my heart thumped whenever I held you, touched you, stained your whiteness with my dirty hands. Do you remember those times I wouldn't let you go? Wouldn't falter, even though another's hands tried to take you away? How I hated those times. Those hateful, hurtful, scornful times where hands that were not mine touched you and made you theirs.
You've made me the person that I am. Because of you, hate has filled my heart. Joy has made me smile and sorrow has made me cry. You, son of the devil, have given me emotions I never thought I'd feel. You've gone to others, stayed with others, loved others that were not me. And I've put up with it, zealously believing you were mine despite the other hands that dared to touch your whiteness.
Remember that time you and I sat under the blossoming tree, and the flowers fell around us, falling in our hair? I remember, because I held you carefully in my lap while you slept. You made no sound, but I could hear the air blow out of you in time with the autumn's wind.
Why must you enchant me? Why must I love you? Why must I be put under torture, because that was your mood that day? You're capricious, you're romantic, you make me laugh and cry because that was your mood on that day.
But guess what? I've decided I don't need you anymore. I've decided to start living, I've decided to let you go. Because even though you've taken me to places nobody else ever will, you and I hold different stories. You don't care for me the way I have for you. You're not unique, though it pains me. You don't laugh, which breaks me.
All you do is sit there while I flip your pages, wrinkle when my tears reach you and dirty when my hands run your ink.
That's why I won't write you a love letter, but a page filled with words that were once my thoughts. Simply because you won't answer my letter, you won't read my feelings, and you won't cry because I'm gone. After all, it was my mistake to fall in love with you, a simple, tattered book that was the reflection of my soul.