You always said you were sorry.
3:59 p.m.

Dear Mike,

I find it strange to be writing you now, after three months have gone by, after finding out that you're gone, after so much time has passed without one single word spoken between us. Now that I have cut my hair, and started wearing nail polish, and put back on that little bit of weight that I lost. Now that I have moved on up, and stopped sleeping with my teddy bear, and stopped thinking about you everyday. Now that I play solitaire with my hands instead of holding yours, and now that I have stopped waiting by the phone. Now that I am back among people who love me and don't prey on my veunerability. Now that I can see that we were not a good match. And now that I have baked brownies with my little sister and started persuing another young man. Now that I am moving back out, and not back out to YOU. Now that I am staying home and building a future for myself, and thinking of me, and doing things for myself instead of trying to make everyone happy. Now that I have put aside my childish hopes that somehow we could work through everything that was against us. Now that I have looked back on things and realized, yes, I do regret. I regret everything. I regret ever meeting you.

Well, I regret almost everything, except for the fact that by being with you for the time that I was with you, I learned something about myself. I learned that I can be loved. I can be needed, and I can be wanted, and I learned that I am worth it. I learned that a boyfriend does not equate personal value. I learned that I am a worthy person, and I will find someone out there. I learned not to put my trust in just anyone, especially the ones who swear from day one that they will not break your trust.

I still pause once in a while, thinking of you, but not every moment of everyday like it used to be. Once in a while, when I have a moment to myself and nothing else to occupy my mind with, it wanders back to the old farmhouse.. to our rooms across the hall, to spooning the night before I left, to the last time I talked to you, touched you, kissed you and thought to myself "Marguerite will be jealous". Maybe you're using Marguerite to make me jealous now, but I'm not. I hate when I have those moments, when my mind moseys in the front door of the house, past your black and white jacket that I thought then that you looked hot in (how mistaken I was), through the kitchen where we'd sit for hours on end when noone else was home (and I wasted all my time.), past the bathroom where I'd wait for you (and waste my time again.), up the stairs where you caught me one Sunday and apologized for trying to kiss me, saying you knew I was scared (i was, and you saw it, and you used it against me.), to my room, where we'd lay spooning, and I'd whisper naughty things to you, but yet I would not let you touch me (i don't regret that at all), and then to your room, where you would never let me in (i'm glad that i didn't feel like i had the liberty to do so).

A million days, you wasted my time, Mike. And this is goodbye for real. I cast you out of my memory banks, I cast you out of my life, and every remnant of you will be gone forever.

-Amanda

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