BETWEEN US
[Draft]
I SUPPOSE I SHOULD START by introducing myself, properly, that is.
Best to avoid the discrepancy between reader and columnist, given what I’m about to tell you.
After all, you and me, we’re on even playing field.
This isn’t just a letter to you, Ben, but to everyone who has lived the lives I’ve lived – loved the people I have – and wanted more than what was delivered to them.
We deserve that, don’t we?
No more heartache, I vowed that. So why am I doing this?
Because I owe it to my younger self –
An explanation, closure –
Something you could not give me.
To confess, I have no idea how you found me.
Did you mean to? Or are you just bored?
Have you found what you’re looking for in life, or have you been resenting yourself a little more as of late? Why would you? I don’t think you deserve that.
No one does.
But, in some ways, I know how you feel. I ran away, too. I couldn’t be there for me, when I needed it most. I relied on you – for time, for acceptance, for pleasure – for pain.
Ten years ago, I met you.
Five years ago, you broke my heart.
But I think… I think, maybe, it’s always been a little broken? Maybe, you just pieced me back together, when the petals were falling.
Maybe, you turned me Gold.
Regardless, I’ve moved on. I would’ve had to. You left me no other option.
I’ve built a life for myself, far, far away from where the tears were spilt and the love was found –
And lost.
But do you want to hear from me? That’s what I keep asking myself. Does he want a response? Of course, of course you do. You’ve troubled yourself into looking into me, and here I am.
Marigold Stint, Blog TO’s managing advice columnist, providing insight for the hopeless at age thirty. Single, by the way, but experienced (as headlined by my assistant Beatrice).
Experienced, by you. Because of you.
For you, Ben.
I’ve written you hundreds of letters, all stashed away, hidden between pages of my journal. My heart, while in the process of mending, still bleeds for the girl whose tears dripped onto the ink. Illegible now, but I still remember.
And here you are, asking for this, asking for me.
It’s only polite that I answer, finally, after all this time.
I can speak, I can share –
I can write to you, Dear Ben Robbins, the last love letter I never intended to send.