3. The Second Message
Send Message to: Him
I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry, in a way that words are difficult to express. I'm sorry for the awkwardness and the tension and the ever widening gap between us. I'm sorry for always fucking up everything that I try and say to you, and for whenever I've ever made you uncomfortable simply by letting my emotions slip through my fingers until it's like a fucking pool of fucking anger and annoyance stupidity and sadness and love and freakish, awful me-ness.
Maybe, if I ever get up the courage within me to tell you these things, bare to you the deepest parts of my soul, you'll give me a hug and a beautiful smile and re assure me that it's all fine, fine, fine, that you love me regardless, like my me-ness is something to be treasured, that I am more to you than just a little girl who doesn't understand other people very well and can barely string a sentence together without stumbling over her words and screwing it up with her god awful accent.
I wonder if your parents know who I am. I doubt it. I wonder if you ever think of me when you're alone, do I ever cross your mind? Do you ever consider what I might be doing, what I might be feeling, saying, if I'm laughing or smiling or crying? If maybe for the first two you'd be the reason and for the latter you'd pick me up and help me through it.
Maybe I'm just stupid and vain and crazy. But still. You cross my mind now and again - more than that actually, though I don't take any particular joy in admitting it, to you of all people. Maybe I cross yours? There you again, the first thing that I think of, the one person everything comes back to.