If you’re reading this, maybe you know who you are.
It’s nearing three in the morning as I write this. I constantly question myself, “how many times is it acceptable to write about the same person?” Because I’ve written about you three times before this on a similar hour, though in different timezones. All three pieces were letters—there’s something intimate in that. None of the pieces depicted you as accurately as I would like it to. The first time around, I was writing through my betrayal. The second time, through my regret. The third I scrapped—I can’t remember what I’ve said about you then.
And then we made that tiny step in reconnecting—or maybe you were only playing nice. That was where I began fictionalising you. You were composed of the remnants of you that I found within me strung together by the parts of you that you’ve left for others to find—none of which I know how much is true.
I can never stop my mind from replaying scenes I’d like happen between us. Reconciliation. Closure. Our friendship rekindled. Part of me feels that it would be easy for me to reach back to you because from what I see the you I see now still retains the you from when I knew you first years ago. But what stops me every time is you. How much of me do you remember? Do you recall us as vividly as I do, even if the only things that remain are the sensations and that the images in my head aren’t even distinct anymore?
How much of us have you forgotten?
I don’t know. It’s always when the sky starts to wake I feel most inspired and sentimental. I hope your days are good to you. And I hope that you are well.
Thank you for reading,