Dearest Midne

They say that a tranquil heart leads to a tranquil mind. That's an awful lot of tranquility. If tranquility was a poison we'd all be dead, but not you, Midne. You're not like the rest of us and you're not like how I wish I was when I think of you and remember that I let some girl carve my heart out of my chest when she didn't even ask. Ridiculous, isn't it? But in the world, we'd be the last two surviving, wouldn't we? Stars in the sky.

Saying that I love you doesn't make it feel any better, nor does professing my hatred. It's a complicated, awful mess, and I wish often that I had never met you. I keep wishing that too, but only for a few seconds before I realize that I actually prefer being miserable to tranquility. This gives me a noble sense of purpose. I'm a martyr for my cause; the girl I love didn't know I existed.

I don't want to love you, you know. I wish we'd just met and that you could have done it some other way, all the life-changing, world-saving business. I wish you could have had a boyfriend. Maybe that would have helped.

No, it wouldn't have helped. Midne, I spent four years trying to ask you out. For long, grueling years where there was so much to do and so little time to do it. You made everything so complicated and I had no more impact on you than a breath of wind. That hurts, after all you did to change me. After all that my world consisted of was you.

So I'm writing this to you now; what I always wanted to say and never managed to show. If ghosts hear letters, you've already heard it about a thousand times. I've killed trees writing to you and telling you and wishing for you and watching your headstone like maybe, if I wish hard enough, you'll pull your way out and this will be a trick.

You do know you're a cliché now, don't you? It's cruel—it's true. You're another black-clad sociopath who took too many pills because mommy didn't love her enough and why didn't you ever see me when I was loving you enough for all of us? Oh pretty Midne, sweet, crazed, helpless Midne, why wasn't I enough for you? Maybe because I never had the courage to tell you that I actually liked girls, that the only girl I could even see was you, that I wanted you all to myself until the world stopped turning?

I love you.

I miss you.

And I bring flowers to your grave every Sunday.

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