You have truly made a cliché of me. I’ve become the kind of girl who gossips in a hushed voice about people and things she doesn’t understand, and I cannot recall a peaceful moment in my life since we separated. I suppose “separated” may not be the right word, considering the fact I see you every day. I feel your stare on the back of my neck and when I turn to confront you ours eyes lock; I always look away first, but maybe that’s because of the humiliation you’ve caused me. I’ve never made a habit of being openly affectionate towards those in my life who I secretly adore, but I took a chance on you that night. I was foolish with my emotions and I spent them all on you. Now I’m broke. For awhile you were my everything and I truly wished to tell you every intimate detail of myself, from the peaked petals to the barbed thorns. So I began with the simple phrase: “I like you.” That night I watched the wild fire devour the rolling hills of Napa in a radiant blaze, and as I sat you spoke softly to me through the phone. But with every comforting rejection I drew a little more into myself until the blossom became a withered bud, dried by the flames. I truly hated you, but I hated myself more for believing the impossible possibility that for once in my damn life another human cared about me as much as I did then. I fasted for days, sat in my window as each fiery sunset devoured the sky in a similar blaze to that one, and hated myself. I’m improving with time but I can’t decide whether successful vulnerability in the future makes me a happy pair, or pathetic counterpart who needs another to feel whole. Regardless of what happens to me I wish you prosperity in all your endeavors, because I’m the kind of person who persistently is abused in hopes that someone else will find what I search for: Love. I loved you; I still do in some twisted way. I hope she makes you happy.