This is the last unsent letter you are worth.
You pursued, dropped hints, outright flirted… and I made the mistake of reciprocating. You backed off. So I dropped it because, hey, that seems like a pretty big signal that you’re not into me. Then you took off. Disappeared.
Cool, whatever, you know. I get it.
But now… now that you’re present, I don’t know.
I still think you’re gorgeous and smart and all-around fascinating. But I’m pretty sure I was duped. I fell for the pretty words and the almost-hints and the maybe-compliments.
In hindsight, it seems like a pretty shaky foundation for infatuation, but whoever said emotions have to make sense? For a couple weeks, you really made me think we might have been something. Now I’m sitting alone listening to Tiger Army and feeling sad because it’s seeming quite apparent that I read too much into things, AGAIN.
So, dear boy, you are still beautiful and amazing and brilliant, just as much as I am still a silly girl who believes too much in matters of the heart. But I’m done with the game, I’m done with the over-analyzing and I’m done with the maybes and what-ifs and trying so fucking hard to make you realize how wonderful I am.
Because, believe me, boy, I AM amazing. I can cook like you wouldn’t believe. I am passionate and caring and so full of love for the people and creatures and the very earth around me. I’m intelligent and well-read and full of surprises. I’m silly and goofy and not opposed to making an ass of myself in public just for the fun of it. I love nerdy things, like historical fiction and fantasy novels and cheesy sci-fi flicks, along with some really ridiculously awesome things like feminism and great sex and the Vancouver Canucks.
But one thing I’m not, boy, is foolish. I’m done.
I hope you don’t regret this.