The Unsent Letter
[This will be a different sort of post. I confess that it’s stuck on my throat, and I don’t seem to be able to handle it anymore without writing. I believe it’s called addiction, right?!]
I don’t even know exactly how I should start this, which words should I use to say everything that’s been compressed in my throat for a while.
I have no idea how we’ve come this far. It’s been almost a month since the last time we spoke. A month, you know?! An entire month.
I got worried, I wrote you. Short sentences, few words, I know, but that’s all I could do. If you were really trying to be away, or if something was actually happening, you wouldn’t feel like talking or writing for hours – I know that. I tried to reach you in different ways, different days, so that you didn’t feel pressured. You never replied.
I would try to go to your place, but I know that also wouldn’t work. So, I was just left with staying here. Nothing to say, nothing to do but to wait. Wait, without knowing how long it would take for you to even mention that you were alive. Without knowing what was happening, after all.
I wish you would, at least, give me some answers. Some real answers, you know?! At least, once.
Yes, I wish I had them. Because being here, without having the smallest idea of what’s going on in your head to be away for so long really stinks. You’ve no idea of how much.
Where the hell are you, Di? Where did you go? Where the hell is my best friend?
Really, where is she?! I haven’t seen her in a long, long while. And, to say the truth, I’m tired. Extremely tired of waiting. Waiting for you to give me a word, an answer. Waiting, at least, for you to have the smallest hint of how much I care, and how much this bothers me.
You know, sometimes I feel like screaming at you, so that you could, at least, try to grasp how tired I am of being the second in line, the one who gives it all, and doesn’t seem to get a single thing in return. I wish I could scream you a WAKE UP!, so that you could understand what you’re doing, and how angry and frustrated I feel.
Go ahead, tell me that you’ve got a busy life [just like you actually did, a few minutes ago]. Ask me again why the hell am I asking you to send an invitation for a meeting through an old-style train. Grasp the differences within my words, and ask me again why am I saying that sort of thing. Yeah, you’ve seen it. You noticed that it was slightly different from my usual, didn’t you? Ask again. Do it, just ask.
And in that very moment, I would only wish you were in front of me so that I could explain it. So that I could put everything in the simplest words, once and for all, with all the almost raw emotions I never allowed you to see. So that you could finally see that, after all, I’m made of flesh and bone, and my blood is still running. Just like my best friend in college said [yes, best friend] “People tend to think I’m too calm the like, but then, they cross their limits and just get shocked when I react.” I subscribe each and every single word he said.
You crossed the limit of the line I drew a long, long time ago. You were always worried about being with those creatures that weren’t even your friends. I have to spend time with them, you used to say, in a guilty expression. On the inside, I only laughed. A lot, actually. You had to spend time with those whores. And what about me?! The one who was always around when you needed anything, anything at all. No, I was a decent, reasonable person and I was completely able to understand how hard your life was.
I never said I had a busy life. Ever. And, probably, most of the times you tried to reach me, I was busy, and deeling with a huge amount of things at the same time. But I would quit whatever I was doing, and give my full attention to you.
See, that’s exactly why you thought it was weird for me not to say the usual it’s all right, darling. You are used to have the passive Amy, the one that’s always waiting for the chance to help, and then, to be left. Forget that, I’m just tired of it.
Ask me, ask me why I said that. And I’ll only say that you were never able to express gratitude for any of my words, attitudes, and the like. I was always worried about you, while you were worried about not letting anyone else down but me.
It’d be a whole new world if you actually read this, wouldn’t? You probably blame me for being fake, wouldn’t you? But try to think the other way around: did you ever give me the space, the opportunity to say it? To tell Hell, I don’t agree! No, you didn’t, right?
So, just don’t get shocked. Sooner or later, I’d lose it. Everyone knows that. I’ve handled it while I could, more than what I could. Yet, now, I couldn’t do it. Not anymore.