Sunday Bloody Sunday
I used to adore you.
There are tears in my eyes right now.
I thought... i thought I'd stopped missing you, that I was mostly unattached now.
I knew that i couldn't have predicted what would happen had you stormed back into my life, called the way I'd wanted you to.
But I didn't expect this. Someone was telling me about her stoner friend today, and I thought of you.
I don't understand any of it at all. I wish you'd just explain everything to me.
Why did you worry about me? You didn't want me having sex or doing drugs, and you wanted me to get a decent night's sleep.
You didn't say so in so many words, of course. You said you'd buy me a car if I stayed a virgin until I was nineteen. I laughed, and you said you were serious. (I doubt you remember.) You were incredibly suspicious when I asked you for information about the effects of drugs for my novel. You once said to me that I was up late, something about how you should probably tell me to go to bed, but that you were up, too, so you couldn't talk.
You probably don't even remember.
I just want to know why.
Even if I never have feelings for you again, even if nothing ever comes of this, I want to know why.
Why were you so angry when they told you I liked you back then, when I was a freshman?
Even if everything else is just that you're a much better person than you believe, why were you so angry?