Dear dear,

Hey. In case you were wondering... I'm alright. And I'm pretty happy.

I still sort of want to be the one to steal your kisses and make you laugh. I want to hear you play songs. I want to make you angry and also happy and I want to know the real parts of you that you hate and hide and need to let go. I could be something great, I'm sort of not so bad and I'm cute sometimes and I can protect you as well as a man ever could. I don't know, I guess I loved you and thought maybe... But I'm just confused. Not everyone can love anyone. And probably definitely not you.

But yah, I'm alright.

Just... Every time I try to write you another letter, it ends up like this, all strikedthrough and uncomfortably bitter. When did I start lying to you?