One Seventeen

I started writing to you the morning after our first date. At the time, I wasn’t sure what I was doing – hell, I wasn’t even sure if what we did was a date – but it felt right. For some reason, it seemed like something at least one of us would appreciate at some point down the line.

That was 117 days ago.

June 29th, I woke up smiling like a total loon. I was thrilled out of my mind over our connection, and quite frankly, certain it was just the beginning. A month after meeting you, a couple weeks worth of texts, and 12 miles of walking talking radiance, I was quite confident that you were someone worth knowing.

I was right. Over the next two months, we didn’t miss a beat. Not a day passed that we weren’t falling for each other. There were plenty more dates, plenty more adventures. We wove our lives together in no time, and it was new to me, but not in the scary way I’d always imagined. I grew to love spending time with your family, and it was astounding how well you fit in with mine. Our only qualms were over college football teams and whether a Chevy was better than a Dodge.

We built a beautiful summer together. It was by far the best I’d ever had, and who knows, maybe it always will be. You cornered my fears and anxiety and set me free to experience unbridled happiness. I can’t thank you enough for that. No matter how things played out or what happens in the future, you were good for me.

117 days ago, I wrote you a letter for the very first time. 22 days ago, I wrote you a letter as an ex-something for the first time. Tonight, I’ll do it again, but now it’s just routine and there are too many letters to count. Sometimes I write about all the good times we had. Sometimes I can’t help bleeding onto the pages and filling them with my sadness. And still other times, all I can do is wish you the best and hope that you still think of me.

Not a day goes by that you aren’t looming at the forefront of my thoughts. We had too much good, too much spark to fade away like that. You know me. You know I won’t let you slip away in a mess of bitter silence. Whether you ever ask to read them or not, I have more letters for you that allow me to bear all. They’re my open, they’re my vulnerable. They’re every bit as real as the letter that wound up in your mailbox – the one that tore us to pieces. They’re me though.

So if you ever wake up one morning thinking back to our first date and all the crazy electricity and unstoppable smiles, call me up. Ask for the notebook. I have 117 days worth of racing hearts and tears inked into its pages, and every last bit of it has always been for you.

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