I’m doing ok.
Life is actually really good in many ways.
I don’t even miss you all the time.
But I do sometimes.
It would be fun to text harass the shit out of you.
Saying nothing important.
I don’t know why.
Sometimes I think that I _______________ you so much because of a fantasy.
I believed you were a kindred spirit.
Corny, I know.
You understood me in ways that I’m still discovering.
At least my fantasy of you did.
You seemed to…the whole you, not just my dream parts, seemed to know me.
So, it’s your fault.
Why I miss you.
Why I smile just thinking about you reading this and knowing it’s about you.
Do you even read me anymore?
Do you miss me some nights too?
Dare I say it…miss my endless textversations with myself on your behalf?
I don’t know, maybe you’re glad for the quiet.
Maybe I was too much for you.
If so don’t blame yourself.
Please don’t start to cry, and no need to call a therapist.
You can alway text me about it.