Dear,

What would you say if I told you that

I'm still waiting?

I'm sure it makes no difference, if you were to hear me say that. But just listen, and open your ears. This is a letter from me to you, and I hope you receive it.

Do you remember the time we saw the fireflies? It was as black as forever, and you clutched my hand and tapped my fingers and pointed out constellations that blinked, and then the fireflies came out and the crickets were chirping and it felt like

God.

And it felt like we were the only ones in the entire world, lying on our backs. And when I began to shiver, you laughed at me because I was the only one in the entire world who would shiver in such warm weather as 25 degrees celsius; and then you took your hand out of mine and pulled me close and I thought, Who is this romantic and thoughtful and overall great person who is holding me? And I could feel your breath in my hair, and you told me I smelled like vanilla, and that that was the greatest scent in the universe.

I fell in love with you.

-

Do you remember when you helped me bake cookies for the bake sale? You weren't helpful at all, and you spilled my flour all over the floor, and you got sugar in my hair, and you distracted me while I took the cookies out of the oven, and we both burned ourselves. I thought

Shit

I really did think you were

so fucking useless. But still, you were adorable. Or, at least, I thought so. Even if you kept stealing the damn cookies, and you wouldn't let me wash my hands because you claimed there was a gremlin living in the sink. And I said - did I really say it? Did I really dare? I said that you were the most terrible person in the world, but you laughed again and said, That's not true! As if they weren't the harshest words I'd bestowed upon you yet.

Really, I could never cuss at you.

-

Do you remember the first time you left? It was like we'd never lived together in the first place. No, it was more like you had never existed. Our pictures were gone, and the stupid little clay models of things we did in our art school days - they'd vanished too. When my sister phoned, demanding I pass the phone over to you so that she could scream at you for being so idiotic and unconcerned with my life, I almost laughed. A day too late for that.

And then I thought the most terrible thing - would you ever come back? Were you gone forever? What if I never saw you again? If you'd have been there, you would laugh hysterically at me, and you would have held me close and whispered knock-knock jokes into my ear and you'd just be such a dumbass that I'd forgive you on the spot, and you'd sweep me off my feet and lead me to the bedroom, and then I

I thought we would last forever, I really did. We'd get married quietly, and I'd be in a half-length white dress and a little tiara and I'd hold a gigantic bouquet of orange and pink hibiscus flowers, and you'd be all dashing in your black suit, and

I just really thought.

-

I remember when you came back. I thought you would leave again, but you didn't. You stayed at the foot of the door for two days straight, and I only saw you leave twice - but, barely two minutes later, you'd be back again, patiently waiting for the door to open. Like a dog, always coming back. I opened the door (Igaveup) on the third day at six in the morning when you were heavily asleep right against it, and you fell against my ankles and woke up and blinked a few times lazily at me, and then you whispered, G'morning princess, and then there were little spots of wetness on your pale pink shirt and I realized (ohshit) that suddenly I was crying, and then you sat up and I backed up and you stood and I turned and you came right to my back and put your head against the top of mine and

I've never been one for short sentences, and this may just be a run-on,

but I fell in love with you again.

God, why'd I have to do that?

-

My hand is sore. This letter is getting long, and most of it is smudged (actually, I hope you can read this, because it's getting kind of pencilly too), but I wanted to write a little more and now there are just two things left and I hope you hate yourself as much as I hate myself, and I hope we never forgive ourselves because maybe that way it'd be easier to cry.

-

Do you remember again when you left? It was, again, without a word. I didn't cry because I was too busy throwing things at the door, and eventually the management had to come up and ask me what was wrong, and I blinked a few times because I was confused at them - like, what were they talking about? - and then I realized I really was throwing things everywhere, and I smiled and told them so politely that I'd lost my favourite pair of heels and that I was sorry for disturbing them. When they left, I think I bit my hand so hard it bled, because no matter what, I wouldn't cry this time.

My sister came over and stayed with me for a while, and she told me you were a good-for-nothing who didn't know how good he had it, and you'd be back in two days tops, begging me to take you back. When she left again - why was everyone leaving me? - she promised she'd call as soon as she reached Ireland, but they might not let her 'cause the business partners she was attending to were pretty uptight about out-of-country calls. I nodded that time and I said, sure, why not? And everything happened the way she said it would, except for that tiny one thing that was such a side detail that I nearly forgot it -

You never did come back.

-

Maybe you'll receive this letter, wherever you are. I'm mailing it to the sea to keep on the safe side. It'll float to you and you'll be all rugged with your five o'clock shadow and the slightest hint of an almost-beard, and you'll pick it up and read it and its smudgedness and then you'll start to cry. I wish that would happen, but I hope you know that no matter how hard I try, I'll still be in love with you, I guess.

I don't know how good I thought you thought you had it, but I hope you thought you had it pretty good, and I hope you remember those fireflies and the cookies and the flour and I hope you remember the feeling of your head against mine and I don't know what I want to hope for anymore, but maybe one day you'll get this and read it.

Love, .

-

PS, I still think it's cold in here with the heater turned up,

because you're not here to hold me close. Cheesy, but true.

written a looong time ago, but i didn't think to put it up until now. :)

Characters used: nameless.
Prompts: letter, songs by owl city.