The email is profoundly depressing, but it’s right. I wanted yearning and regret, I wanted tender words of lost love, I wanted support and hand holding, I wanted impossible things, I wanted all that. All that. And then more.
I asked him to write me something sweet to hang onto when we spoke last, but he hasn’t. I know he is writing for me a million words, he is writing for me for weeks and months, he is writing for me, and it will not be enough, when it comes, finally, it will not be enough. When it comes, finally, I will not need it anymore.
So, it is right that I get a polite email, a nice email, a pleasant email, it is right to drift away, it is right to not speak of anything at all, it is right and it makes me cry.
Tomorrow, I will be okay, but tonight I feel sorry for me.