Letters to old loves

I have never stopped loving you.

I’m so sorry for your loss. I think about you every day and I hope you know that I still love you unlike any other human I’ve ever loved. I hope you’re okay. I miss you so much.

I still take the long way home so I don't pass the coffee shop. Five years and I still do it without thinking. I hope he's good to you.

— the one who waited too long

You were right about everything. I was too proud to say it then. You were right, Jordan. I hope that means something now.

I found the letter you wrote me in 2018. I never answered it. I'm answering it now, even if you'll never read this. Yes. The answer was always yes.

You texted 'take care' and I've never recovered from how final two soft words can be.

I see you everywhere and nowhere. A jacket like yours on the train. Your laugh from a stranger. I keep turning around.

— still hoping it's you

You asked me to stay and I said I had an early morning. I didn't. I've thought about that morning every day since.

I kept your hoodie. It stopped smelling like you a long time ago but I can't give it away. It's the last warm thing.

We were twenty-two on a rooftop and I think part of me is still up there, waiting for the song to end so we don't have to go home.

I almost ran the red light to catch up to your car. I didn't. I've wondered about that intersection my whole life.

You spelled my name right in your wedding speech to someone else. A friend sent me the video. I'm happy for you. I'm also on the floor.

I deleted our photos in a bad night and I've regretted it every day since. I can't even remember your face clearly now. What did I do.

I still know your coffee order. I'll never use it again and I'll never forget it. It just lives in me now, useless and permanent.

You once said I'd realize what I lost. You were right, and you've probably long stopped waiting to hear me admit it. You were right, Anna.

I wrote your name in the wet cement behind the school when I was sixteen. I drove back at thirty. It's still there. So is the feeling, apparently.

Some nights I draft the text. 'I think about you.' I never send it. So I'm leaving it here, where it can finally be true without ruining your life.