Dear Claire,
Okay, well um. Where to start? You’ll probably never read this. In fact, chances are it won’t even reach you. I’m probably just writing this for myself, you know. For therapeutic reasons. I guess I should just say all this stuff. Especially by now, but it helps to write things down or else I stutter and forget, and generally make an idiot of myself.
It’s September 3rd today. That means it would have been our two years and 6 months anniversary. You know I always complained that month anniversaries were for twelve year olds but you always kinda liked the idea so happy hypothetical anniversary. I know you’d probably roll your eyes at me, bringing that up and I’m aware that it’s been well over a year since now you, uh, left me. Well one year, three months, and sixteen days. I think right now, I’ve finished the process you know? And I’ve finally come to terms with the fact that you’re not going to come back—ever. And I think I’m out of the phase where I just lie on my floor hoping that you’d just turn up on my doorstep. You know what, I’m doing okay. Getting there, baby steps.
I’ve even um, I’ve even been sorta seeing a girl. Jess, is her name. They’re going to keep telling it’s a, you know, a positive step in getting over you and stuff. And don’t get me wrong, she’s a nice girl but, different. It’s funny. Your muscles have a certain memory about them. That’s why we can tie our shoes or play piano without looking. But then you spend a long enough time with someone and your bodies memorize each other you know? The warmth of your back, the pace of your heartbeat, your tickly eyelashes and the way your fingers would curl in sequence when I used to play with your palm. Another person is like moving to a new country where you don’t know the language. It’s a scary thing. And she voluntarily eats celery. Who does that?
You know people are always on about, “You’ll find someone else! There’s plenty more fish in the sea!” Well you know what, I feel like a friggin’ fish in a bucket. I’ve been reading lots. Non-fiction mostly. Did I ever tell you about the theory of the multi-verse? It says that there’s an infinite amount of hypothetical universes parallel to ours that contain every single possible set of circumstances. Kinda got me thinking you know? Means that somewhere, there might be a world in which on that 15th of February, we never had that argument, and I didn’t say all those things I didn’t mean, and you didn’t walk away without another word. Or maybe there’s another world in which I—chased after you. And we’d still be together and catch the train together, and do couply things and have bubble tea with those god-awful slimy globules of jelly down the bottom which I hate.
Sometimes, on my way, I walk past your house and every time I do, I get this weird urge to knock on the door which is stupid because I know you wouldn’t answer it. Well, in any case, it’s technically your old house now. You’re—nowadays, you’re quite far away with your new life and all. I wonder if you even remember me sometimes. I—I wish you’d talk to me. Give me some vague sign that you do remember. ‘Cause you know what? I’m not doing well, life is actually pretty shit. And look at me. I’ve gone this whole page without using the L-word once so far. But looking at it objectively, realistically I—I’d say that I still love you. And I’m kinda afraid I won’t ever really stop—loving you. I hope they’re treating you well up there because I miss you more than ever.
Love, Shaun.
