On love that makes us what we are.

An open letter to a lost love: I haven’t spoken to you in years — we’re not friends anymore — but I know where to find you if I need to. The Internet is a vast, open file cabinet of information, so maybe once a year, I search for you just to see how you are. You look really happy. And she looks like she’s a wonderful girl. She looks like one of those artsy, hipster, earthy girls I’m always perplexed by; I just don’t know how they pull it off day in and day out. She looks smart, and she looks kind. And she looks like someone who fits better with you and your family than I ever could. I don’t know if you search for me, too (but in my world, you would). Know that I’m happy, and that I wasn’t the monster you thought I was toward the end. I was young and I was still very immature. Losing you hurt a lot, mostly because it should not have happened the way it did. I would never send this to you because it would prove I would still think of you. You might think I wasn’t happy with my new love (I am, and I promise, but nothing’s perfect). I just hate unfinished business — and as loose ends go, you’re one I wish had been tied neatly a long time ago. I just want you to be happy — and I’d be lying if I didn’t say I wish a tiny, miniscule part of me wished you were still happy being with me.