Dear almost lover,
This is the last letter I will ever write for you. The day has finally come when I can keep your memories in boxes in the attic, sweep thoughts of you under the carpet, and burn my black secrets to ashes. I wished for the existence of such an unbelievably surreal soul, that would sweep me off my feet, take me above the whites of the ninth cloud. I have realized I do not need a magical entity in my life because all it does is trap me in an illusion. I feel blinded by a sympathy and love isn't supposed to cloud our minds with fears and insecurities. You made me feel so unimportant, so objectified; I'm no less of a person I deserve to be treated like. I don't hate you, you are just insignificant. An unbelievably wonderfully beautiful reality has found me now and I believe we will be happy together. There are moments of sadness sometimes, but they are just the hollow flashbacks of your insincerity. The important thing is: we will live. Together. We'll need our rest, as tomorrow ushers a halo of happy moments that would sweep us off our feet all-together.
So goodbye, so long. I wish you luck in your solitary existence.
-Your could have been luck.
and everyone else.
I will fucking write.
P.S. This is an extract from chapter five of our book 23 Memories. Still writing.