Dearest,
The most depressing thing in all of this is I get it. And what’s more depressing or just as depressing is because of how much I get it, I know this is it. I’m not even mad at you. I was the asshole. I think I just wanted us to fall apart together.
I thought you would want that, too.
Remember when you mentioned knowing what your first mistake was?
I’ve been thinking a lot about that. Like what was my first mistake?
Was it leaving my journal unattended? Was it showing up at four on the fifth of July?
Was it not telling Connor a month ago? Four years ago?
Was it telling you I was nineteen? Which one of those things would have stopped me from being alone in this house eating all the Twizzlers and listening to fucking Perfume Genius on repeat?
Anyway, I figured it out. It was acting like I knew what you needed better than you did when you were meeting with that lawyer. I should have kept my naive ass sitting at my own table and let you live your life your way.
If I’d done that—stayed in my place—I have no doubt I’d still have been desperately in love with you, but at least you wouldn’t have had to be involved in it.
And Connor wouldn’t have ever had to know, and you could have found someone who didn’t complicate everything, and we all could have come out of this relatively unscathed.
Now, obviously I have this theory that you’ll never be happy without me, and I’ll never be happy without you, but the reason I think that is because now I actually know what it’s like to be with you. And whether you know it or not, I do know how you feel about me.
If I hadn’t gotten up—if I’d left it as the crush it was only ever meant to be, then I would have met someone just fine who would have been an okay person and hopefully a decent lay, and I would have thought to myself—this is what love is.
Love is easy. Love is sweet, and sex is good, and relationships are chill.
Here’s a nice looking plus one who’ll hold my hand and drive me home, and I won’t have to be the one who remembers to take out the trash all the time because fuck, I’m terrible about that.
Here’s someone who’ll deal with all my moods and my needy ass, and I’ll just smile and be cute and give him great blow jobs so he keeps me around. Simple.
Would he rock my world? Who knows. I wouldn’t know. Because I never would have had my world rocked anyway, so maybe. Maybe it’s all relative, and you don’t know what you don’t know, and ignorance is bliss.
Obviously, if I could change the fact that I had a crush on you, I’d go ahead and do that, but crushes aren’t mistakes per se. They just happen. Especially the one-sided ones.
I think we can both agree that I should have stayed put that day. I should have let Connor re-introduce me to you when he was ready. He for sure would have told you how old I was, and then none of this would have been an issue.
So, I’m sorry, Dearest. I’m sorry for not minding my own fucking business. I was a domino, and I fell right onto you, and now everyone is fucking miserable, and I don’t know about you, but I am actually destroyed.
Connor’s big on silver linings. Whenever I’ve gotten bad news—for example having to move to Houston for my senior year—Connor sat me down in all my hysteria, held my hands and asked me—what’s the best thing that can come out of this?
I don’t even remember what I said. Something about having more money for better clothes probably because my mom’s job in Houston paid more. But I did have a real answer, one I didn’t tell him.
The real answer was I’d have a chance to figure out who I am outside of him.
And I did do that. I figured out I was shy as fuck, but I love attention, and as long as someone talked to me first, I was a carnival switching on.
I learned people besides Connor thought I was worth inviting places and didn’t mind me hanging around.
I learned I like different music than he does, and that I’m actually a decent dancer.
And I think all of that would have been really good for me in terms of heading off to college with some self-confidence if I hadn’t made that first mistake that led to all the rest.
We’ll never know, and I cannot describe to you how truly fucking sorry I am about that.
With deep regret,
Tristan Chase