unrequited

Dear ______,

By keeping me in the (I hate this term)Friendzone, you have taught me what love means. I cannot imagine what would have happened if you would have given in and taken me out on a date if your heart was not in it. I can no longer feel anger towards you or towards myself regarding all of this. I have said before that anger was a mostly useless emotion, and now I will tell you why: it’s blinding. It has closed my eyes before and I will not let it close them again.

Here’s the truth: I am not yet ready to move on. I don’t think I’ll be able to until our friendship fades, which is hard to swallow, but I just can’t see you as more than a friend. I hear your voice and my heart leaps- it leaps, ______- and I cannot force it back down. When I first told you I had feelings for you, two Springs ago, I assumed that if you didn’t like me back I would just stop having those feelings. It’s laughable now, but I have always been such an insufferable idealist, though it’s not just about hope.

Allow me one last extended metaphor:

When my feelings began to take root, I assumed that they were only pesky weeds that could be easily removed. So I ignored them, until I looked over and they had grown into a sapling; I couldn’t pull it out with my hands. So I brought out a shovel to remove the pesky thing, only to discover that it was beautiful. I left it, hoping it would get easier to destroy it as time went by, but soon I began to enjoy its shade. I discarded the shovel and the axe and all of my fears and climbed to the top of its branches, and ______, the view was magnificent. It made me see everything in a new way. My garden was larger than I thought, and all the love I have ever felt blossomed continuously around my tree. Surrounded by all of this life, I felt less alone; depression visited less often, stayed for shorter periods of time.

But my tree is still fragile and cannot survive on its own. I have tended to it, almost out of habit, for the past two years; I have known no other way. Eventually, though, I will begin to wander away from this beautiful tree. It will die silently and without complaint as I plant new gardens.

When I happen upon it again, I will discover that it has lost its leaves, and immediately I will know what that means. I will mourn it, trying to remember what it once looked like in full bloom, but I will not stay near it; the memories of it will hurt me too much. And as I am sleeping in the branches of a new tree, I will hear a soft thud in the far distance. It will echo in every chamber of my heart; the last bit of love I had for you will leave my body.

But it’s no use crying now, or imagining that endings are permanent or set in stone. I’m not there yet- the tree of my love is still full of beautiful green leaves. Just as I’ve said after all of my letters to you:

The story continues on.

With blossoming love,

_______