I have a stack of letters.
As I recieved them, I had kept them in my piano bench. But when the letters stopped, I tied them together with a shoelace and put the stack in a shoebox which I hid away for safe-keeping. And, as awful as it sounds, that's how I handled the friendship as well...
Sometimes I open the shoebox, and admire my little stack of memories. I never open them, never even untie the shoelace, because I am afraid of the guilt that would find me there.
He used to be a good friend. More than a friend actually. For one naive and wonderful month, we experimented on what it meant to have a relationship, as it was new to him, and somewhat new to me. All my relationships before had been long distance and almost imaginary. And they all broke my heart. But this guy, he was tangible. He was more than just a phone call away. He was there.
I remember when we started to call eachother 'sweetheart'. There was something about the word that put my heart at peace and complete bliss. It was being loved. No more second place. It made me first, and special, and wanted. I wanted to hold on to it with both hands and cling to it, no matter what it took. Anything to be called 'sweetheart' one more time....
But I knew I couldn't. When I realized that I was in love with this feeling more than I was in love with him, I broke it off (my parents' disapproval played a big role in this decision also). I broke his heart.
Then came the letters.
They started out as being our secret way of communicating, to go undetected by my parents' radar. At first they were genuine. We talked about what was going on in our lives and the comic in the paper that morning that had reminded me of him. But as time went on, and as my piano bench was beginning to overflow with letters, it turned into a hiding game.
He felt uncomfortable talking to me in person, so he continued to write letters that became more and more meaningless. I always sent one back, even though we both knew our hearts weren't in it anymore.
We finally agreed to stop going through the motions. We would try to just talk in person for now on. But it never was the same as it was last October. We had both changed. And even now, I feel like I don't know him anymore. And that's my fault.
I took all the memories and all the feelings, put them in a stack, tied them together with a shoelace, and hid them away in the outermost part of my brain. Maybe one day I will be brave enough to open them up and relive them. But the fear of the guilt and the longing I will find there is almost overwhelming....
I'm sorry Batman.

