But… Who are you really? I see you smiling and laughing, yet there’s a glint of despair in your eyes, and the smile fades all too quickly.

My love,

I confess I’ve been impatient, longing for you constantly and rubbing the lonely cold spot on my bed.

I selfishly hope to find you every time I leave this empty apartment, searching the faces of strangers for traces of your light.

My mind wanders to a strange place where I imagine what you’re doing- are you cooking dinner, reading your favorite book, laughing with your friends?

And then I miss you more, jealous of the strangers who get to spend time with you when those people could be me.

But I know that I must wait until you’re ready, and I’ll keep writing these letters with the knowledge that one day you will read them.

I’ll wait for you, whispering “I miss you” into half-empty wine bottles, because you aren’t here yet to share it with me. But one day you will be, darling.

One day you will be.

It’s upsetting to know that you’ve mastered the art of claiming to be tired when you’re really just sad.