Open Letter to The Ex.

Dear B ---.

Thank God you're impossible to Google. Zabasearch was tempting, even with your ridiculously common last name. Such a cliche, I know, looking up one's ex within ten days of Valentine's day ( remember how we both hated it but secretly relished having each other on that day?). I can't help it, though. I heard Sarah Smile somewhere and I wanted to cry. Scream. Call. Something.

I still know your number by heart.

Oh, don't worry; I won't call you up or anything. You're probably happy. I hope you're happy. (Cliche, again, but it's true). You and your thin, white wife are probably ridiculously happy and having lots of inventive, creative sex and doing all the things we said we'd do together. She's probably great, and is giving you all the things I couldn't. Wouldn't.

Damn. I know how that sounds: bitter and vindictive. And I honestly don't feel that way towards you, really. I just wish things had been different. That I hadn't been so damned afraid of how much I loved you and how hard it would be if I'd let myself do so. Or rather, how hard I thought it would be.

It was all my fault, B_____. In case you didn't already know it. I ended our relationship because I was afraid, and ended our friendship because I was still afraid. Only when I stopped being your friend, it was because I knew I couldn't get married knowing how easy it would be to fall right back in love with you. Every time you asked "how about now?" Joking, I would laugh and say no, but wanted to say yes.

Yes to how you made me smile.
Yes to how you made me feel whole.
Yes to how you made me feel like finally, there was someone I could give to and they'd appreciate it.

Remember that book we said we'd write? I thought about it. I got out your letters and thought about asking you if we could publish them or something. But I didn't want to share that joy with anyone. Didn't want to share you. I ended up just submitting a short story. It got in, though. Wonder if you'll read it. If even through the pseudonym, you'd pick up the book and know I wrote that story.

I won't tell you how things are here, because everything I have is directly attached to me not having you, and either way, it's awkward. Suffice it to say I'm fine, and I miss you.

Here is a copy of the book; I hope you enjoy it.

All the best,

G.