You

I wrote to you so often. Almost every day. I wanted to write you every day. I wanted you to read every sugarcoated words I write to make you realize how much I still love you. But I didn’t send the letters, you know, because I wasn’t sure if you liked me still. I wasn’t sure if you would think about the letters in the way that I thought about them. I wasn't sure if it would matter to you as you matter to me. I wasn’t sure if those letters would mean the world to you, like they did to me. So I kept them. I kept them, and I think that was one of the best decisions I’ve made. I take them out, every now and then, and read them. Maybe someday I will burn them; maybe I won’t. Maybe they will always mean the world to me. But I don’t need the world; I just need you.