november 9, 2014letter never sent.

even calling you by name, somehow it feels like a foreign language to me, which any sane person could easily resolve is outright senseless or unjustified, considering the expanse of taken-for-granted time I've known you, over so many years, and the just efforts we've put into building whatever this relationship we've grown and safe-guarded might be. I admit, I oftentimes find myself desperately grasping at straws just to somehow rationalize to myself what this, between us, even is. And I so badly wish I had the power in my lone being to define our relationship or how I feel about you in simple, calculated words, but it's all so much more involved and puzzling than I'd like to admit. I know what I did was really shitty, when I didn't tell you I was home— I don't know what to say for myself, but the closest I can come to any explanation is admitting to you that I was scared of my feelings for you. If I were to acknowledge that I care about you, that means I suddenly have something I can lose. I'm so afraid to lose you, as a friend or otherwise, and I'm afraid that if you see me for who I really am, this perpetually fragile and changeable wreck of a human being simply trying to get through every day with as much courage and backbone as I can feign, you'll come to this canny realization that you can do better than me.

Coming back home, I wasn't prepared or ready by any measure to face my likely self-imposed fear of descending into a bottomless pit of failure, because nothing has quite panned out the way I've intended for it to. From day one, you always saw me for more than what I am, always have been. You were able to penetrate through my meticulously-placed defenses and outer exterior to discover aspects of me that I wasn't readily aware even existed. For once, in my ordinary little life, you made me feel like I was capable of amounting to something greater than me. So when I tell you that I'm terrified, it's not just something I say for the sake of making excuses for myself, but I'm constantly trying to escape from underneath this shadow of daunting self-doubt, that tells me I'm not as good for you as I'd like to hope. I don't ever want to fall short of being the person you see me as; someone who's strong and bears enough heart to be selfless, someone who can hold the weight of the world on their shoulders. I'm not sure I'm quite there yet, but at the very least I'm trying. You make me want to be brave. You excite, stupify, and utterly overwhelm me with your readiness to be exactly who you are, because you're so sure in your conviction that he's someone worth knowing.

I've always had a difficult time conceptualizing how I feel and I'm not so sure how we go forward from here. We've gone from intervals of not even speaking to harsh resentment— more on your end than mine, I would say, but well-deserved nonetheless— to this obscure medium, which up to this point has entailed this transcendental night between us completely embraced in one another, almost as if immersed in a hallucinatory dream, a development that has somehow produced more questions than answers. What do we do now? I want to make myself believe that I'm capable of doing this; of falling into the great unknown with you, but every time I do, I'm matched with this paralyzing fear and panic when I think of what it could cost me if I somehow manage to screw this up, like I have most things in my life. I can almost guarantee you that I inevitably will. I want to apologize to you now, before that happens. Because as much as I am afraid of losing you, I'm not self-sacrificing enough to let you go.

I can't let you go.

Yours always, even when you may not even realize it.
RJ