Dear T.V.,

Sometimes I look back on how we met and I find myself convinced that it was fate. The only reason why I had decided to go out that night was because I had wanted to see a certain boy. My friend had told me all about you but I didn’t really care. I mean, I didn’t know you so how invested or excited could I be about our potential meeting? When I saw you walking up the sidewalk, I didn’t find myself enthralled. On the contrary. I was so impatient. I wanted you and my friend to finish eating so that we could go out and meet up with that guy. On the walk there, I was standing beside you and I shifted positions so that I was on my friend’s side. I don’t know why I did it. It was such a small thing but you noticed it. When you made a comment about it, I knew that you were different. It’s so stupid how the smallest of things could make me feel like you were worth getting to know. Later on, after we had exchanged jokes and laughter and set the foundation for what would become “our” camaraderie, the three of us drove around searching for beautiful views of the city. We talked. And I discovered that your heart was broken. Shattered into a million pieces. Even then I could tell that you were a fragmented version of yourself.

So much has happened since that night, too much to account for in this letter. 

But I will share a couple of moments: the first is the night that we played cream hockey and really hugged. You had been telling me how you disliked hugs because you weren’t sure when they were supposed to end. They made you feel awkward and unsure. Later that night, we hugged and it lasted for a couple of minutes and I remember feeling like you were home. You felt like home every time after that. But that first night was the most terrifying experience because I took this long drive home and I kept thinking, “Wow… You’ve got to marry the person you can play cream hockey with.”

The second moment occurred at a party. You were so drunk and I was lying on the grass. You didn’t want to lie down so you just walked around and I leaned up on my elbows and watched you. I wanted to make sure that you didn’t fall over or hurt yourself or whatever. And as I watched you, I was struck by the realization that I was in love with you. And this revelation was ridiculous because there was nothing special about that moment. It was completely and totally ordinary. And yet it was transformed by the wave of emotions that coursed through my veins, the same wave that I feel now.

The thing is, we’re great friends. No. I don’t want to say that because I don’t really believe it. We’re not friends and we’re not lovers. We’re in that place that’s in between, the place that doesn’t have a name, the place that is so damn uncomfortable because it can’t decide what it is.

I feel so much for you. More than I have ever felt in my 25 years of existence. And you, you don’t really feel the same way. Or you do but you don’t want to because you’re still holding on to the pieces of your broken heart or (if I’m being completely honest) you just don’t want to be with me.

That is the hardest thing for me to deal with. The realization that despite everything between us, you don’t want to be with me. You try to deny that there’s something there between us but you’re only fooling yourself. What we have is something real and true and significant. 

I keep thinking that I should just move out of the place that the three of us moved into together. I should move out and move on. But I’ve never excelled at doing what I should. 

I want to be with you. I should have said that before when talking about our feelings wasn’t awkward. I should have said that even though I was terrified as all hell, I was willing to try it out. I was willing to make the jump. But I didn’t. And now I’m two doors away from you and it feels like miles. Endless miles. What is the tagline of that Somerset Maugham movie?

Oh yes…

“Sometimes the greatest journey is the distance between two people.” 

The sad thing is that I am quite sure that even though we have seven months left together, we will not make the journey. At the end of this, we won’t even be looking at each other. We’ll be looking past.

Love (Yes, love),
Rae, age 25