I’m not sure why I’m writing to you. That’s a lie. I know exactly why – I miss you. At least I think it’s you that I miss. It could very well just be the idea of you. Or the memory of you. Whichever way, it involves you, as it so often does. I’m 100% sure I don’t cross your mind anymore. I’m 100% sure little things don’t remind you of me. I’m 100% sure you can stroll into a Costa Coffee without remembering our countless coffee dates and my terrible, terrible coffee addiction (which, might I add, is still going strong. Clearly the attempts at converting to tea didn’t quite work).

I wish I could say the same. My mind mashes our coffee dates into one silent reel every time I go into a Costa, every time I hear someone say they want a hot chocolate, extra marshmallows. I replay that day we spent in London every time I wander down Regent Street. I remember you wore that damn jacket of yours, even though it was a good 20*C plus. I remember trying to repress the manic grin when you held my hand in yours. I remember the lazy afternoons spent in your car and our late night talks of nothing and everything.

I remember being young and in love.

I graduated last month and landed myself a decent job. It’s not the dream but it’s a fantastic stepping stone. I’ve changed as well. I’ve learnt to embrace who I am as a person, quirks and imperfections and all. And my eyebrows are killing it. I should be happy but. But.

God, if I could go back.

Sometimes I wish I’d run into you, on the train, in the street, standing in a queue for caffeine. Sometimes I wish I’d log into Facebook and see a message, an e-mail, a text from you. And then I laugh because the thought of you reaching out to me is so absurd. Why would you? What could you possibly have to say to me? “Hi, I miss you, I forgive you, let’s try again”. No. I’m the one that pushed you away, I’m the one who couldn’t open up to you, I’m the one who let you go. I’m the one who begged, cried, and threatened.

When I lost you, I lost my everything.

I’ve thought about reaching out to you. “Hi, it’s been a while. Let’s grab a cup of C8H10N4O2 and…” And what? Talk awkwardly about nothing and skim around the subject of everything? No, it’d be futile; akin to reopening an almost healed wound and pouring copious amounts of salt directly into it.  But the temptation is still there. It’d be so easy, a simple friend request, a quick message. The romantic in me ever hopeful it’d restart something. The realist in me ever aware it’d only lead to more hurt.

I want to say that I’m over you, but I’ve lied to myself enough. I’ve only just reached the stage where I’m okay with dating someone other than you. Not that I have. Not properly anyway. The odd date here and there, a goodnight kiss, a “let’s do this again” and then nothing – because, unfairly, you’re the benchmark. Of course you would be. You’re the first, my first (almost) everything. Best friend, kiss, boyfriend, love, heartbreak, ex.

I wonder if that’s what makes it harder. They say you never really get over your first love. Not completely. You seem to have managed it though. Maybe it’s easier when you have someone like me as your first love. I ‘scarred’ you.

But you destroyed me too.

No. Nothing good will ever come out of us reconnecting. We could never be friends again; I stopped seeing you as just a friend when you awkwardly bashed your lips against mine. We could never be together again, too much has happened, too much time has passed. Acquaintances? Pigs might fly.

So we’ll carry on being strangers, never seeing each other, never talking. You’ll continue to pass through my mind and I’ll continue to never enter yours. There’ll be days when my finger will hover over the ‘add friend’ button and there’ll be days when I’ll be glad that you’re no longer in my life. I’ll have days where it takes all of my strength to not cry over what we lost and I’ll have days where I know it ended for the better.

After all if we were meant to be together we’d have found our way back to each other, somehow, right?

If, somehow, our paths cross again in the future please look upon me kindly. Please don’t hate me with every fibre of your being. Please remember that you moved on, you dated, you loved again. Please remember that I’m broken.