It looks like I keep finding blog entries I want to quote.

I quote her, its fictional, but good.

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I need a letter but not that kind

He’s playing this song that’s supposed to take the place of post-coital conversation, and I know he’s trying to tell me something but not what. I turn away from him in the bed, trying not to listen to the song, because I am crying, and whatever it is the song is supposed to be telling me, that’s what’s making me cry. He doesn’t notice, though—not that I am crying, not that I have purposely turned away from him. He sees right through me, I am an afterthought to him, and it is only now that I am figuring this out. I can’t place my tears, but they probably come from a subconscious sense that this is the last time we will be lying here like this—that this is the last time he will fuck me and then play some song to make it look like there’s more to it than that. I realize now that he doesn’t care who I am, doesn’t want to learn more about me, doesn’t want to be with me. It’ll take him four more days to figure it out for sure, at which point he’ll stop by my room and, not bothering even to sit down or suggest that I do so, he’ll tell me that he doesn’t think we should date anymore. Then I’ll offer him the option of either sitting, which both of us should be doing already, or leaving, with the intention that he’ll leave and I’ll be alone to cry, thus saving face by not doing so in his presence.

But he won’t. He’ll stay, and I’ll cry, and I’ll say some bitter things that I’ll later overanalyze and possibly even regret, and he’ll give me the most empty hug I have ever felt and I will know then what I have feared all along—that what he feels for me is nothing. And he’ll say to call if I want to hang out or just talk, and he’ll walk out of my room and never think about me again, if he’d ever thought about me at all. And I’ll bawl as if we really had something, and I’ll replay every encounter I’ve ever had with him in my mind, punishing myself for not letting him know the things about me that he would have liked enough to stick around, ignoring the fact that he never asked. I’ll think about his scars sometimes, especially the one on his upper back, and that will lead to thoughts of how he’d turn into a little boy when I rubbed his back, and how I would have done anything to make him happy. And I’ll wonder if I loved him, if I love him, all the while knowing that this is what it felt like when I was “in love” in high school, which turned out to be nothing more than an unrequited crush.

And when I grow up and raise my kids in the town next to his, I’ll think about him every so often, and maybe I’ll run into him sometime with the woman he wanted to talk to after sex, and of course she’ll be one of those women who don’t have much to say. And I’ll look in the mirror later and wonder how he hit me so hard, whether I loved him or the idea of him more. I’ll think about how I never thought I was that into him while we were together, except when we were in bed. And I’ll realize that this was the only time he was into me, that this was the only me he knew.

And when, four days from now, he does walk out my door, that song, the one he played our last night together, will form the soundtrack to my tears. I’ll continue to search for the meaning he was trying to convey, even though I know the search is futile. I’ll never call him to hang out or talk, because I realize that if I do so, I run the risk of coming to feel all the things he thinks I already feel for him. Maybe I’ll run into him later in the semester at a party, and we’ll both be drinking, and we’ll kiss, and we’ll go upstairs, and I’ll want to let him touch me but I won’t, and when he asks I’ll tell him that I don’t need any more memories of him. And he’ll look at me like he’s hurt, but he won’t say anything, because for one so good with words he never has much to say. And later as I think about his lack of reaction to that or anything I’ve said to him, I’ll think of all the expectations I had of him that he failed to meet. And I’ll be content to remain without him until I think of the other expectations, those he surpassed.

And that song. “Yr Letter” by onelinedrawing. Eventually I will cease to care about the letter in the song, or what it meant to him, because I will be thinking about another letter, the one I sent him, the one that started this whole mess. And I’ll wish I’d never sent it, that he’d never read it. I’ll wish I’d never held any place in his life, that I’d never given him a place in mine. "