Dear E:

I have a hard time telling people who you are. I can't really describe you as my ex, because you never will admit we loved each other. Maybe WE didn't. But I sure loved you. I can't descibe you as just a friend, because you were so much more than that. So most of the time, I just describe you as 'the boy who broke my heart'. I know, it's cheesy and campy and cliche, but it's true. So I hope you understand when I say that I am having a very hard time feeling sorry for you now that you are the one with a broken heart.

True, I was nice and chatted with you. True, I tried to cheer you up. I don't even know if your heart was broken, entirely. But I know you wanted him SO BAD. In your mind, he was totally your type: both of you big and manly and muscular and in the medical field, both of you looking for something stable to get you through your two years on the island. So it hurt, didn't it, when you saw him kissing that younger, browner, cuter boy? When you heard that he had said you were 'not his type'? When you realized he had rejected you without so much as letting you know?

You remember how you got all excited when he finally FINALLY agreed to go on a date with you? You nerviously got dressed, did your hair up good, got ready to impress the hell out of him... only to be sorely disappointed at the outcome of the night. Not even a good night kiss! How could something that you had pictured so perfect in your mind go so wrong so fast?

Does any of this sound like exactly what happened a year ago? Let me rewind the reel for you, back up to before you or I came out.

I remember a depressed, confused boy who lived in the body of a beast, a boy searching for someone to listen to him and help him figure himself out. Someone to love him and tell him it was OK to be this boy-beast who loved other men and wanted to be loved back by them. I remember writing letters back and forth in a fury, both of us struggling to express who we were and what we wanted out of life and love. I remember doing this for MONTHS, being your sole confidant. I remember it progressing to "I love you" and flirtatious texts and thoughtful deeds. I remember that I loved you before you were skinny, before you turned heads, before you moved to the big city and had a circle of hot friends around you that you felt you needed to fit in with and started shedding pounds and morals. I loved you when you were confused and hurting and needing someone to love you. All I ever wanted was for you to love me back, and I thought you did.

And then came the summer, and the much-anticipated visit, and the dance on the beach, and clothes coming off the instant your parents walked out the door every day and shushing each other at night so we didn't wake them in the other room. It was the best four days of my life up until that week, and I was in heaven. I thought I had found you, that I had my one. I went home, head in the clouds, thinking things were going to continue like they had for 6 months.

I was so wrong. The utter silence that followed was a million times worse than if you had just slapped my face and told me you hated me. Weeks I waited to hear from you, forced myself to not write, to not bother you. And as time wore on, my love for you ebbed and was replaced by hurt and anger. And when I finally wrote you, broken hearted and finished, all I needed was notice that you had moved on, not a letter telling me you were tired of me.

So I hope you can understand, dear E, why I told you I loved you and always would. And I hope you can understand why I was so happy to hear that your heart had been stomped on by a man much hotter than you. Maybe now you can understand what you did to me, how you took my hope and desires for something good and something that seemed perfect and tossed them to the side like they didn't matter at all.

I don't want your love anymore. I moved past that. I will always love you, I wasn't lying when I said that. All I want from you are two words: I'm Sorry. Before this happened, it wouldn't have meant much, just that you were sorry you had done something you maybe shouldn't have. Now, though, it will mean so much more because you know how it hurts and you will be sorry because you caused ME that pain, because you did that to ME. And maybe it will show you how much I cared about you, to be able to talk to you while you were down about it... and not kick you.

I doubt you'll ever say you're sorry. That's ok, because I doubt this is a letter I'll ever send.

I love you, and I always will,
D