Dear "You"

this isn't necessarily fiction.

I’d tell you I love you for the sake of a gesture, but then again, what do I know about love? And what do I know about you? Or myself, for that matter. I’m just a child. I’m a child in more ways than I know, and though you are too, it’s me who’s flawed. I let myself believe in loving you because it’s so easy to do. I let myself crumble when you hold me in your arms. I let myself put a wall between us - not that you noticed. And why would you? Who am I to you but a friend, if that. What you don’t understand is that through my naivete I have been able to love you. To care for you an unhealthy amount, and to believe that it’s true. Maybe I’ve done this because I wish it were true. I wish I had someone to long for - someone like you.

You’re really different. At least to me.

I think you remind me of myself in a lot of ways. I’m guessing you’ve never put much thought into that. I’m guessing you don’t recall most conversations we’ve had. It’s fine if you don’t, just know that I do - and I’ve been overthinking you since I’ve known you.

Maybe something’s wrong with me. I think about that a lot. Maybe I’m not all there, maybe I’m too there. I don’t know. I don’t know so many things. Lately my own thoughts have become some of these things. The things I don’t know, I mean.

I was led to this thought because in truth, I don’t know how I feel about you. I wouldn’t say I never did but I can’t say that I do. I might’ve made you up so that you’d stand out just for me. Something to think about when I’m alone that isn’t me. Or maybe it’s the fact that I have such a hard time letting go. I might be holding on to juvenile feelings that I did know.

Either way I’ve stretched you into an idea. An idea that I like a lot, sometimes maybe even love. But you’re still you, a person, who I really don’t know much about. I want to and I hope to, but it’s probably better I let it go - since it’s about as real as

...something fake.