Dear you,

It has been three months, two weeks, and five days – you hate numbers, so I won't break it down into hours and minutes and seconds for you – and a day hasn't passed that I haven't remembered everything.

Love, me.



Dear you,

You + Me = love.

It looks weird now, those words together. Unnatural. They didn't before. I used to write them all the time, on little scraps of paper. Little doodles of hearts with arrows through them with our names inside. Of course, I always tore those little pieces of paper up before you could see them and threw them away, because you would have laughed at me. You would have called me childish.

I am childish, but so were you. We are all childish, self-centered sore losers.

I realized that and accepted it long ago but it just made you angry. You didn't understand – it's just human nature. You didn't understand yourself.

But maybe I didn't understand you, either.

Love, Me.



Dear you,

It's two o'clock in the morning, and I haven't slept. So I'm writing this and remembering you.

It's weird how it still feels so natural to be up so late. We were always awake at strange hours, for strange reasons. Like the countless times you would wake up crying from some nightmare. I would kiss you and hold you and comfort you until you stopped crying, and I would almost fall asleep again, but then you would talk.

I remember all the words you would say to me. Memories and nightmares and dreams and confessions that you would whisper into my skin, burying them inside of me like venom, like a disease. I told you that it was okay, that I understood, but it was a lie.

And then after, you would sleep, you would shine and glow, pure again, like you were supposed to be. And I would lie awake and feel the secrets you told me crawling inside my skin.

I don't know why I'm telling you this. It isn't as if it matters to you what your words from so long ago have reduced me to, what you have done to me.

Love, me.



Dear you,

You left some things here when you left. Not much. A bit of makeup, jewelry. Some clothes.

One of your T-shirts is sitting right next to me, actually. I might be imagining it, but I think it still smells like you, even after four months and eight days (I'm still counting.) Sometimes I press it against my face and smother myself with it until I can't possibly breathe in any more of you, and then I just…

stop.

Love, Me.



Dear you,

Happy fucking birthday.

Love, me.



Dear you,

I'm sorry. That was uncalled for. But its how I feel. Everything changed very suddenly today – for the first four months and twelve days, I felt sad. Lonely. Tired. Scared. And then today, angry, just out of nowhere. I want to kill someone today. I want to destroy things today. I tore up that T-shirt you left and then put it back together with safety pins. I threw all of your makeup and jewelry and that pretty handheld mirror you loved so much out the window and then went outside to pick up all the pieces.

Most of all, though, I wished you were here so that I could… well, I don't know what I would have done. I might have kissed you, or I might have killed you. I don't know what I'm capable of anymore.

I told you once that I would do anything for you. I would lie, cheat, steal, bleed for you. I would die for you. I would kill for you

The offer still stands if you'd just come back and hold me one more time.

Love, me.



Dear you,

Four months, two weeks, four days, eight hours and twelve seconds.

Countless moments that I can't forget.

Love, me.



Dear you,

I admit it, I'm lonely.

I met someone last night. I hope you aren't mad. We really hit it off, too. Her name is – well, no, I won't say her name. She's sweet, nice, caring. Pretty. I like her a lot.

She's nothing like you.

She asked me out. I wanted to say yes. I wanted to so, so badly. But I knew exactly what the rest of my life was going to be like if I went on that date.

That one date would turn into two. I would give her a goodnight kiss, and we might go out again. This time I'd accept her offer to come inside for coffee and if things went well I might end up spending the night, and maybe we'd make love. Probably clumsy and awkward. And that would be it. We'd fall in love or something like it, and get married and have babies and that would be all.

And it wouldn't be a bad life. It would be really, really good. In some ways, it's all I want. But it's not a life with you, because she's not you, no matter how I want her to be.

I told her no, and I lost any chance I might have had at a second chance at life.

It's your fault.

Love, me.


Dear you,

I hate you so much.

Love, me.


Dear you,

I wonder a lot of things.

I wonder if you think about me. I wonder if you've fallen in love again. I wonder if you're happy. I wonder if you're still alive.

Because I have no heard from you once in the six months, two days, and nine hours that you have been gone, and a man has to wonder after that long. It's not unlikely, really. People die all the time.

So, do you hate me that much? Have you forgotten? Or are you just dead? I'm hoping that you'll answer me someday.

Sometimes I hope you are dead simply because it lessens the chance of me meeting you again someday, and I hope you are alive for the same reason.

Sometimes I wish I were dead for the same reason.

I think I must be dead. It feels like it. I feel like a fucking corpse. I'm sick and I'm tired and I do nothing, nothing at all, but lie around and write these letters that you'll never read.

I bet you're wondering what I've done in these last two months that I haven't been writing to you. I don't think I'll tell you. I think I'll torture you like you've tortured me.

Love, me.


Dear you,

My perspective of you changes almost daily. Some days, you are a monster. Some days, you are the sweetest girl ever to walk the earth. Come to think of it, that was how it was when you were here, too.

Today, you are a cold, heartless bitch, and I like it that way.

I still hate you. I still love you. I still miss you. A lot. But it doesn't change anything.

If you love me, don't tell me. If you care, don't let me know. If you've changed, if it's possible for either of us to change, pretend it isn't so. Stay the cold, heartless bitch that I've convinced myself you are.

It's been six months, one week, one day, and one hour, and nothing has changed, except for everything.

Love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, me.


A/N: Um. I will write more That Summer. Really.