each letter.

i knew it was a question,

not a statement.

i said,

i wanted us to work so badly.

i wanted us to be great.

we still could be,

you replied,

the question mark silent

but deafeningly loud at the same time.

you were asking

if i wanted to.

you were asking

if i thought so.

i never gave you an answer.

but here is my answer, now.

darling, i could have loved you more than the trees love the sun, but we couldn’t be.

the honest truth is that we were never meant to be great. we were never going to work like that. i was always going to be too blind and you were always going to be too fucking stubborn, and i was always going to try to save you even after i figured out that i couldn’t, and you were always going to resent me for it.

another chance for us meant this. it meant figuring out how to push things back together. it meant saying sorry and laughing a few times about ignorance and mistakes and then leaving it.

and maybe another chance means leaving things feeling open. unbuttoned. unscrewed.

there isn’t anything here for us, don’t you see that? there isn’t anything left. we’re a skeleton.

i can still miss the way you’d make me laugh with just one word.

i can still long for those never-ending phone calls.

i can still want to find somebody who can fill your shoes.

i can, and i do. every day.

but when you said

we still could be,

that didn’t stop my heart from saying,

no.

we couldn’t.

—my answer

the words i’m sorry became my best friends.

they rolled off my tongue every second as we sat there unearthing every crack in the foundation, every broken windowpane. and they became yours, too, because we found breakage in places i never touched: cracked china, ripped curtains.

we had built a home on lies and insincerity, on fairy-tale tropes and misinformation. your secrets were nailed into the beams. my selfishness was trapped in the drywall. everywhere, the air was heavy. thick with all that was wrong.

so, we tore away the rot and the brokenness. tossed out the garbage. at night, we sat around the fire and apologized, over and over again. until we knew only of forgiveness and learning.

this isn’t another love story. this is a reconciliation. this was never going to end with us together.

in the end, we left the house and never looked back. you turned one way and i turned another.

the house we built, it is stronger now. i want to think it can withstand the weather and time in our absence. i want to think that there may be a time where we come back.

—renovation

i think

we may always

be a little drawn

to each other

because what else

can you do

when your love story

was never finished?

when there are pages

still not read