I’d start this letter with “Everything happens for a reason,” but you’d hate me for it, so I won’t. (Even though it does.) (Sometimes.)
I don’t really want to write this letter now. It’s so out of the blue; green; yellow. We haven’t talked in weeks and that’s nothing new, but this is. Bear with me.
You see, a few days ago, I realized that I had lost that ring you gave me. The one you bought two years ago with your graduation money, so we could be married-but-not-married, engaged-but-not-really, two silly, silly animated lovelings. Yes, I lost it. It’s not in the box, not in my drawers, not under the beds or the tables or the shoes. It’s gone.
(Since I wasn’t going to start the letter that way, I’m going to put it here:) Everything happens for a reason. This time, I think it was your ache knocking on my chest, saying, “I was. I was. I was.” This time, I think it was the love I had swallowed down to keep my pride up scratching its way up my throat, screaming, “I was. I was. I was.” This time, I think it was your memory, softer than nostalgia, marching across my body, chanting, “I am. I am. I am.”
I’ve denied our love, called it fraud, called it fake, called it lies and folly and disguise. But the absence of that ring is a crater so large that I cannot stop myself from being afraid of getting crushed. It’s waving a huge banner behind its trail of dust, saying “Darling, you love him just as much as you pretend not to.”
(When I talk in parentheses, I’m saying that it is okay if you skip over what I wrote.) (I still leave this here, because I know that you won’t.) (I loved you.) (I still do.) (I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut behind punctuation though.)