Home For The Summer

Dear,

When the vacations began I watched a kdrama and thought about you. I compared the lead’s ticks with yours and felt miserable. I must ask you what you did during the summer break. I don’t want to, but I must. Obligatory politeness is a strict policing system after all.

However, you must know that this is not a letter about you. It is about me.

I have watched another legal drama since Miss Hammurabi and read dozens of cringey fluffy fanfics. I have changed my moral code and waited for the right amount of time and situations in which this letter will be considered moderately welcome.

But as I write this I can’t help but think about everything else but you. It’s a veil of distraction that I’ve discovered recently. I touch the silk of this curtain and feel almost nostalgic, almost.

What am I doing now? I am making metaphors about you, although I don’t remember you at all. Writers write like that. I don’t remember the shy glances, the hand holding, broad shoulders. But I remember a bleeding hand, shouting and tear drops on ink. And that’s enough ammunition for this letter. But I shouldn’t lie like that. Forgive me for the cruelty I pretend to wear like a cloak. Of course, I remember the shy glances, the hand holding, broad shoulders.

Except, I remember being not put first too. I remember being not cared about too. I remember sticking to my fragile defences in the face of your nonchalant ways too. I must admit those emotions are rather over powering.

This letter is not about you. It’s about me. It’s about me letting that happen and not loving myself more. But now I do. I do. I look at myself in the mirror, wavy hair, long eyelashes, thin pink lips and say ‘I do’.

That’s all.

XYZ

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