My love, I could write you letters for pages, endlessly. I don't know if a lifetime would be enough to tell your story—or to explain what you mean to me.
There must be a cure for this helpless love.
Could you be that cure, my dearest man?
If all the things I never said were spoken now, would they still mean anything to you?
Did you miss me as deeply as I missed you?
Before you got married, I never had nightmares—never those cold, aching dreams. But after your wedding, they came. And they stayed. Was this obsession? Was this a personal failure? Was it the ache of wanting something so badly and never being able to have it? Or... was this love?
People say it's just a syndrome—a fear of unfinished stories. But if that were true, why didn't I feel this with anyone else? Not even with my ex-husband. There was no sadness, no grief when I walked away from him. We were done. It was clean.
But with you... it's never felt finished. Why are you the only one who stayed incomplete? Maybe it's the dreams—yes, let's blame them. Or the tarot readings. Or the blame others kept projecting onto you. I'm suffocating under it all.
But I'll find the way out—again. I always do. You, on the other hand, keep living your life as if none of this ever existed. Smiling in every photo.
Are those smiles even real?
I wonder—what is your biggest regret about the past? Do you even have one?
Would you ever write me a book one day? Share your real feelings?
No, never mind. Don't write me anything. What if you told me you never loved me? What if I was just another woman you passed the time with? I couldn't bear that.
It's the "what-ifs" that drown us the most.
Today I think I'm in a melancholic mood. The background music doesn't help—it plays all the wrong songs. I should sleep. Tomorrow is work. And the next day, I go to class again.
Life goes on. Even when it shouldn't.