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I am done.

I am done with you. I mentally can’t deal with you anymore. Every day I think of you, and for what reason? You used to make me so happy; hearing your name used to put me in such a good mood, and for what? I don’t know why I’m writing this. You’ll never see this. You never bothered with the way I felt. I can’t anymore. I can not take it anymore. You caused so much joy yet so much despair in one year. It’s like I’m on a sick roller coaster where my feelings are the ones that are at stake. You slowly took me up to the peaks of my happiness, and just like that, when you didn’t expect it, you took me to lows I didn’t even know I had. Finally, taking me through a series of loop de loops which makes me feel sick every time I think of you.

It’s 1 am, and we both know I don’t make rash decisions when I’m tired. As I rest my head on my plush blue pillow, procrastinating on an assessment, staring into the soft glow of my laptop screen, I wonder when do I let you put me through this again? What’s that old saying? “Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me.” Hell, I’m already a fool, so what’s after that? Do you know what still get’s me? I still love you. I don’t know why. It doesn’t matter how much torment you put me through; I still love you. I still imagine you, I still imagine us, and I’m holding on to something that didn’t even happen, but it makes me so happy. Actually, being in a healthy relationship with someone, genuinely caring for someone, is something I’ve longed for, and I thought that could be us. It turns out I was wrong, but hey, that’s love, right? I had every opportunity to tell you how I felt about you, but I didn’t tell you. I always felt like you knew. You’ve had to of known. But when I needed closure, when I needed the last say, I get denied it. I get pushed away, having to be told by your friend that you’d prefer me as a stranger. I just feel empty.

I still picture your eyes, your sweet innocent brown eyes. I can get lost in them all day, but yet there is no residue of a torturer inside of them. Your innocent voice was so calming. It made me feel safe. It’s funny, isn’t it? How I still hang onto things even though they are dead. I’m like a gardener trying to keep my precious orchids alive, but I just get hit by storms from left to right. I need to speak to a therapist, don’t I? That's a problem for tomorrow. You seriously don’t know how tired I am, both physically and mentally. I am so close to falling asleep on this keyboard. It’s idiotic. But just the thought of you makes me stop. You take over my mind; it’s a sick, horrible form of torture. Just to let you know, this letter isn’t for you. It’s for me. Because I need the closure because I need the ending, I need this to be finished, and I’m not letting the image of you dictate my life anymore.

Honestly, it feels like whiplash; we’re friends, then we’re not, then friends, then we’re not. Like I said before, how long do you think it's going to take for me to let you do this again? Or are you going to move on to the next person? You know what? I am done with you. I am done with your name, your face, and your friends. You’ve tainted your own self-image to where I feel physically sick when I hear your name. I am done.