Two weeks… Dear Max…

I decided far earlier today I’d make a chapter. Just for my thoughts and comments to M. Nothing more. Nothing less. No contact is killing me. Literally, so here we go…

Dear Max,

Two weeks. Two weeks ago I thought we were happy. I thought we’d make it work. We’d be the success of statistics. Two weeks later, I’m alone. You’ve moved out in record speed. You’re gone. The items you used daily, items before you left, they’re simply left behind. As if they never mattered.

I’d be lying if I said it was okay. That it didn’t hurt. It hurts. Badly. You should be here. You should be encouraging me, comforting me, having discussions of life with me. Instead, I’m alone. Completely and utterly alone.

All day, thoughts of things I’d say if we were talking. Now, the end of the day, I feel I can’t recall. I want to discuss life. Discuss how indoctrination affects a person’s developing mind. Discuss how things could be different with different ideas or paths. I want to tell you what I’ve learned.

I want to tell you how sorry I am. As I cleaned all day, I realized I unfairly judged you for your hoarding. I didn’t give you a chance. No chances to fairly address it. Yet, I can’t. I’ve went no contact, I can’t tell you how I really feel. The regrets. The sadness. The yearning to make you feel accepted and address the problems. I’m sorry. So sorry.

Instead, I’m living in a pretty sterilized house. A house without the warmth of items. Of love. A house that’s thrown away a ton of good. In hopes, someone would love it back.

I don’t want that. I want you. You next to me. You realizing how much you love me. You holding me when I can’t hold myself.

This sucks Maxwell. I miss you so much. I wish I’d wake up next to you. Fall asleep by you. I wish you’d realize we’re meant to be. Before it’s too late. Before I give up on you. On life.

I love you so much. It hurts. Badly. Maybe tomorrow it’ll click. Just maybe.