Dear you,
Tonight I am remembering breathing in each others air. It’s kind of a silly thing to remember…but it was so intimate. I can’t tell you what we did that day. I can’t tell you what we were wearing or which vehicle we were in. But I remember the warmth. It’s hard to explain, but your warmth had this scent, or maybe your scent had this warmth. I guess it doesn’t really matter, but when I remember breathing in each other’s air, I remember that smell and that warmth and I associate it with love. I can almost feel it. I suppose one can never forget things that feel like that. It might have been 105 degrees outside. It might have been 30 degrees. But in that car, breathing in each other’s air, the temperature was just right.
I know I shouldn’t be remembering these things right now. I have a boyfriend that hopelessly adores me, and you’ve met someone that makes you happy in a way that you haven’t been since we were 16. Sometimes when we talk I wonder if saying that I wish you the best sounds like a lie. It’s a standard lie to tell. I guess that in some ways…inexplicable ways…it feels like a lie. Not because I don’t want you to be happy, but because I want you to be happy with me. I’m having a difficult time coming to terms with these things.
I read a book today called Killing Yourself to Live” by Chuck Klosterman, and this one passage moved me so much that I literally sat up and read it over and over. I thought about reading it to you, and how your eyes would squint because that’s what you do when you think really hard.

Now I am remembering reading to each other in our apartment. I can’t remember the books. I just remember you wanting me to read to you, and me never understanding why. I always fumbled over the words because my brain was always four words ahead of my mouth. I always preferred to hear you read. Your eyebrows would knit together and your voice always got deeper. You’d pause between paragraphs and look up at me from underneath your eyelashes. I never understood how you did that. I don’t think I ever told you how sexy it was when you read to me.
In hindsight, I regret not voicing the little things like that. Not telling you that I saw you when I looked at you. Not telling you that you still moved my soul everyday. Not telling you how madly in love with you I still was, even though we were driving each other to insanity. I hate myself for not telling you these things tonight. I don’t think they’d really make a difference now. But I also didn’t think they’d make a difference then.
I think I’d give anything to be 16 again. Dumb in love, saying everything that came to my mind. Because Why would I keep it to myself? You were just as in love with me as I was with you.
Now I’m remembering moving my senior year of high school, and you being grounded. Writing me letters you never got to mail because I couldn’t get you my address. I’m remembering looking at the moon every single night at a specific time because you snuck your phone to call me and tell me to do so, so that we could be looking at the same moon in different places together, even when we weren’t together.
I remember thinking how sweet that was. Sometimes I still look at the moon -at no specific time- and I wonder if you ever look at it and remember me. I also wonder if you’ll ever look at it with her, and if when you do, you’ll be glad it’s her and not me. Inexplicably, I hope that you do, while at the same time I hope you do not. I feel so selfish and dirty for feeling that way.

Tonight I am remembering you because I am remembering love. Because you are love. And I have come to realize that I will love you endlessly and completely until I die, and maybe even after that because you are “It” for me. The “it” that people spend their lives questioning the existence of. The “it” people search for is something that I am damned to relive through nostalgic letters that I write to you with no intent to ever send.
Sometimes I wonder if reincarnation is real, and if maybe the lives we lead are consequences of a previous life. Maybe I was a terrible person and this is my punishment. I know you’d tell me that there was no way I was a terrible person, but you never really know. But I don’t really think it’s a punishment, because loving you is the best thing I could imagine doing in any life. But I digress.

Tonight I am remembering this passage:
“I want her to get married to this architect and I want her to be happy. But I still feel like I lost. We have the potential to fall in love a thousand times in our lifetime. The first girl I ever loved was someone I knew in the 6th grade. Her name was Missy. We talked about horses. The last girl I love will be someone I haven’t even met yet, probably. They all count. But there are certain people you love who do something else; they define how you classify what love is supposed to feel like. These are the most important people in your life, and you’ll meet maybe four or five of these people over a span of 80 years. But there’s still one more tier to all of this; there’s always one person who BECOMES that definition. It usually happens retrospectively, but it always happens eventually. This is the person who unknowingly sets the template for what you always love about other people, even if some of those lovable qualities are self destructive and unreasonable.
…
The person who defines your understanding of love is not inherently different from anyone else, and they’re often just the person you happen to meet the first time you really, really want to love someone. But that person still wins. They win, and you lose. Because for the rest of your life, they will control how you feel about everyone else.”

Tonight I am remembering us. I am remembering our precious 3 years together. And I am remembering you. I am always remembering you, because I am always loving you.

Love, me.