Letters to You

1.

Letters aren’t usually written this way, but maybe emails are? Not-Not that this is an email, though—no.

Anyways, I just wanted to say, “Hi.”

Okay, well, not just hi, but I wanted to get into contact with you. It’s been months, you know? Several. Nine to be exact.

I know it’s sudden, and you probably don’t even want to hear from me, considering what happened between us that night...

But listen, I... I miss you.

There, I said it. Call me a dumbass for even trying, sure. But I do. I don’t care if we cut our ties and you blocked my number—and really, did you have to go that far?—I miss what we had.

Our late night chats about random bullshit, like the chocolate frog and why that became a thing in the first place, or the Easter Bunny at the mall who was actually hot under the mascot gear. Don’t you remember those nights?

Yeah, even though we’re not it anymore, reminiscing about the fun we had shouldn’t be something we should lock away. Our time together shouldn’t be forgotten... I enjoyed every minute of it.

Why do I get the feeling you despise every moment you’ve had with me? You changed once the words, “I’ve had it” left your mouth. Your smile distorted; replaced with a grim, thin line. Your funny slouch changed into a broadened stature that admittedly began to intimidate me.

I’m sorry, but what can I say? You turned into an asshole, and yet, here I am, trying to talk to you.

Is it weird that your ex is doing this? I’m probably breaking the rules of being an ex-boyfriend. Unlike other people from broken-down relationships, I happen to still care about you. Why? Because I know for sure that you cared about me during the three years we’ve shared a bed, cooked each other food, and jostled each other around until we were both breathless.

I wonder if these details bring up the past I know you’re trying to hide from...

Just what did I do to make you so pissed off? Was it something I did that was the final straw?

Look, I’m not asking for your heart back, I’m just asking if we can keep in touch.

Three years... that’s a long time, if you forgot. Three years of my life are made up of you. Even if I wanted to discard you from my memories, it wouldn’t be possible. You’re engraved in my heart and in my head. You have impacted my life, and I’m pretty sure I’ve done the exact same thing to you. Hit me up when you’re in the mood to give me the time of day.

Love—yes, I do still love you, asshat—

Remy

2.

Emotionally unstable and brain dead because what the hell, Dan? After that “good” sex, you just upped and left without a word and expected me to clean up after the both of us as if all was fucking fine and dandy.

Well, it’s not fine and dandy. Nothing is! A relationship, I don’t know if the word rings a bell in that stupid, moronic head of yours, but it’s where people care and love each other and look past the other person’s flaws. I know I have plenty of flaws, like the bleached hair I’ve had since dying it myself in my ex’s bathroom—but you, you have no consideration for anyone but yourself, and I’m just now realizing this.

How dare you? You think you can use me? I may look like a nice piece of ass and I may be an extremely flirtatious person, but I have morals, too!

I may wear booty shorts to show off my tiny, twink ass, but you can’t just flaunt over to me and grab it just because you think it’s yours! We just started dating. Out of the three weeks we’ve been together, for two we’ve had nonstop sex. We haven’t been on one date. Excuse you, but I am not your local whorehouse. I am your boyfriend. You’re supposed to treat me like I’m a fucking somebody, not just some body.

You rarely speak to me; I haven’t heard one single affectionate word utter from your mouth. Am I dating a brick wall? Tall and stiff as hell—yeah, pretty much the fucking same.

You have three days to get your act together. Three days.

We’re over if you don’t apologize for being such a dick!

Fuck you, don’t bother to call or text. I want to see you in person with tears in your eyes.

72 Hours.

Shawn

3.

Dear Kelly,

Has anyone ever told you your ass looks like the perfect peach? There’s a reason why, because I’ve managed to scare away any other man who dares to let their eyes wander on you. You’re mine.

Not that you’re an object, Babe, no way. But, you are—mine.

You’re not slim, but you’re not too bulky. You’re shorter than me, which is always amusing (Come on, admit it. You love my tall height.).

You prefer skinny jeans over anything and you don’t care if society hates that it squeezes your balls, because you love showing off your legs—which, by the way, God sculpted them amazingly.

Your lips are so puffy and become redder when I kiss you harder than intended. And when you apply that coconut lip balm, I just want to swallow you up again.

What a naughty boy you are, sending electricity through my body at the very sight of you.

Your strawberry blond locks never fail to capture my attention. The way your hair glides smoothly through my fingers as I caress you entrances me. Just as you nod off to sleep, my eyes are slowly drooping as well.

I tend to remain proper and civilized in public, but you—how devious. With your knee-high boots, skinny jeans, and skin-tight shirts—Where the hell do you think you’re going?

The only strip club you’re working at is the one at home, and I’m your only customer. Kells, I don’t want to keep you on a leash (not that you’d mind), but please be mindful. You’re irresistible, Baby.

I love you,

JJ