I am writing for him. I don’t know how many people are reading this, but I am writing for him. This is for him, in the hopes that he reads this. In the hopes that he sees me, hiding between the lines and peering out, waiting for him to find me. I don’t care how many people read this, be it none or a hundred, and I don’t care how many of those people think that they know me after having my words in their mind like flesh. None of that matters. What matters is that he reads this, as I know he sometimes does, because this is my love letter that I will never send but have always been writing for as long as I can remember. I have been writing this love letter since the day I met him. And I am a coward because I know that he will never read it, even though I have written it for him. I know that so many other people will read it, and I wonder with disgust how many people will be reading this love letter that was not written for them but written for someone else, and how many of those people will see themselves in it. It is not for them. It is for him. It is all about him and the time we had together. Those moments when we touched in the dark and soft. The things that we said that only we can remember. It was all fleeting, and now it is gone, but this is still a love letter like a funeral for something fantastic that I felt because of him. This is my homage to the nostalgia of wanting to feel that way over and over again. And wanting to feel that way every day. Which might be unrealistic, because if it didn’t last then, well, could it ever last? If we couldn’t make it work when we really had the chance, then what about now? But love letters do not have rooms for right now and what couldn’t work. Love letters are about love, and this love letter is about him, so all I can write about is the love I had for him. Even though that love might be gone. I would just like to take this five short minutes to think about him. To think about what happened. To think about loving him and how much that changed me. I am a better woman now because of it, and even though all of that is over, I can still hold onto the fact that, my god, I would love to fuck him one last time for the rest of my life.