I still think about you, B. I still remember the sound of your voice and how it soothed me when I was falling apart that one day. I wish you knew how much I miss our conversations. You were one of the few people I could be honest with, and I have yet to find anyone else to confide in. Our time spent talking meant a lot to me. And yet….I guess we weren’t feeling the same things. If you had really cared, you would have come. That’s what friends do. That’s what I thought we were. I was sending you the book because it reminded me of you, and it made me smile because I loved you. I loved you, B. I loved you like you were family. You were special. We were special. But only to me. And that’s what I started to realize every time I thought about mailing the book to you. I was sending you all this stuff because you were special to me. And me? I wasn’t special enough, I guess. And now everything is just a distant, messed up memory and maybe it wasn’t how I remember it, but everything was blurred back then. And now? It’s still blurred. Everything is blurred and I’m crying now just thinking about your crazy OCD ritual stuff you did with your teeth-brushing, and your clothing and just everything about you. Well, I still miss you. I still think about you. I still care.
Sometimes, when it rains, I sit with the window open and drink tea and listen to your music you sent me and just think about you. I miss you, B
