Dear
You,
Let
me start by saying that I understand why I write to you. Reading all my past
letters, I’ve always thought that I’m
doing it for you – that I was writing so when I finally meet you, you wouldn’t
be a stranger to me. Now I know better.
I write them not as mere letters but as prayers.
“Did
I waste my life?” My friend asked me this question a number of times when he
was celebrating his birthday and I would, like instinct, say without a shadow
of a doubt that he didn’t. We didn’t. I have to admit, sometimes I feel empty.
Sometimes I feel like I could’ve done more than I did. Looking back, maybe I
shouldn’t have succumbed to fear. Maybe I should’ve believed more in my worth.
See,
I write to you so I will remember these days. I write to you because I feel that
somehow, somewhere, you get me. I write
to you because when my Facebook wall is filled with wedding invitations and
baby pictures, I find comfort in knowing that in time, I wouldn’t feel a sting
anymore.
I
still believe in you. I still believe in us.
One
day, when I tell you stories and show you pictures of how I have partied hard,
had countless conversations over coffee with friends, and read books to keep
myself grounded, you will unequivocally say that it’s time to spend my life
with you. When that day comes, I will
gladly inform you that I have been spending it with you – in my heart, in my
soul… in my dreams.
Love,
Me
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