You may never read this; and even if you do, it doesn't change anything.
If you read it, I hope you know it is about you; I think you will. This doesn't change anything; I will still be with him. I just wanted you to understand that I'm sorry, and if I hurt you it is nothing -- believe me -- nothing compared to what I have done to myself.
The thing that kills me is I did this.
I know I did, I know it was me who made it this way, that I have no one to blame but myself.
It's been two months, and sometimes I'm fine. Sometimes, when I'm in his arms, it's fine and I'm fine and inside I sigh and think, okay, I did the right thing. Exhale.
But then there are sometimes, when I sit alone by myself, another night of doing nothing, by myself, stretched out ahead of me that I think – good god, what have I done?
I have done this to myself. I have condemned myself to a summer of occasiocal glismpes of happiness, of arms wrapped tight around me, of kisses brushed casually against my lips. But that's only occasional, and mostly I have sentenced myself to a summer of nights like this one, a summer of nights sitting by myself.
It's been two months, and now I know how you felt. I'm sorry I did this to you, and if it makes you feel any better, I am feeling it now. Oh, how I am feeling it.
I ache inside. I see commercials that remind me of you and my heart twists a little sharper with every day that passes. I drive on the roads that used to take me to your house, to your arms and I have to physically force myself not to turn the wheel towards you.
And the thing is, I know I cannot do anything about it. I know I cannot. I did this to myself. You did not want us to end; I forced us to.
Should I have tried to work on us? Should I have ignored the butterflies in my stomach at the attentions of a new boy?
Probably. Maybe. But I didn't, and now this is what I am left with. The summer I could have had, we would have had, sifts through my fingertips like grains of sand. I did this to me, to us, and I don't know what to say but I'm sorry.
If I made you feel like this, then oh, god, I am sorry. I know how you felt know. I know the feeling of loneliness suffocating, the panic that this is what my summer will hold, rising up from my stomach and wrapping its tendrils around my throat. I know the prickle of goose bumps as you stare, desperately, at the phone, willing it to ring and yet knowing it will not.
I am not happy. I realize this now; I have come to terms with it. I will not say I did the wrong thing; but right now, at this moment, lord, I am not happy and it kills me inside that I did this, I wanted this, even.
I won't say I would take it back. I won't. It isn't as though I want to. It's just sometimes, like now, I can't help but wonder: what if?
I am not happy; to even think the words is like a release. I am not happy; I did this, and I thought I could last the summer but I don't know if I can. I am not happy, and I am drowning in it. And if I did this to you, then I am sorry.
You may never read this. Maybe you will. If you do, I hope you will understand that I cannot go back and change what happened; and maybe, maybe it was supposed to happen this way. But right now, at this moment on this night, I am not happy and I am drowning in my regret and what could have been.