Because this week means that I'm no longer rounding up when I say 5 YEARS.

I can't even say that you have no idea how I feel about you. Because you do. And if you don't, goddamnit, boy, go back and read that story, those letters...it's all there. For you.

You started this and I fed it. You kept going and I was right there with you. I didn't even have to read into your words or wonder what you were thinking when you put your hand on my waist. I just knew, OK? I had no reason to question and I forgot what it was like to doubt.

Note the past tense, darling.

I never knew, until I met you, that heart-breaking is a process that can span years. I always thought it was a one second job...when "over" is spoken, the moment you see him kiss another girl the way he kissed you. It takes a second to break and god knows how fucking long to heal. But this, this is different. Piece by piece for the last five years.

I blame myself, too, you know.

I'm supposed to be a smart girl. One of my best friends said to me, "Don't be the girl who waits for the boy." He actually sounded disappointed that he had to tell me that. My friends are disappointed in me and yet I'm still thinking about that morning with you in Cocoa Beach and the night we stayed up 'til dawn, drinking gin and playing poker and the ride to camp where we didn't stop talking for longer than the length of a really good song on the radio. That's what makes this hard.

You. Are. So. Fucking. Cool.

But you keep doing this shit. Over and over again. And this time is the worst. Not only did I finally admit that I think I'm falling in love with you (which, when translated from wimp-speak, means "I fucking love you, you bastard") but there's another girl involved. You started this when you have a girlfriend and I didn't even bother to question your intentions. This was a mess before it even began. I don't even know anymore.

Why can't you just come out and tell me where I stand? You do know that the longer you go without writing me, calling me, making any indication that you know I'm still alive, the more I believe that what you have to say will fucking hurt, right? I am expecting the worst and, god, will it be fun when I get it.

For once, it's you who needs to get their shit straightened out. Or tell me that you've already gotten your shit straightened out and say, "Hey, sorry about that whole liking you thing. Slip of the tongue. Oh, ha ha." You know where I stand, where I've been standing for the past five fucking years. You KNOW. And if you're still avoiding the questions despite knowing? Well, then....

Don't tell me I've broken your heart in the past. You don't even know.

I am done.

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