I’m transcribing a series of handwritten letters I wrote, but never sent. Read the previous letters here.
Last time I’ll write you. I miss you now because I don’t feel anything for you anymore. Even when I think of you. Even when I remember the sweetest things you said to me.
And I miss feeling. It comes around so infrequently. Even the misery. I don’t think I’ll ever feel that much again. And I did not feel so much the first time, or in the first place.
I miss that you made me care. I don’t really miss you anymore. But, maybe I’m just saying that now, because I haven’t seen you again or been reminded, or had a little anything for someone else. Now there’s nothing. I look down at that little hole where you sat in my heart. It’s not sad or happy now. It’s just empty. I’m sad about that. But there’s nothing wrong with being sad. There never has been.