Hannah, we’ve had a good run. You moved out, what, five years ago? That’s kind of a long time. You said you hoped that I would always think of you. If that’s the case, how come, when I do think of you, you don’t respond? To have me still thinking of you at this point almost seems selfish. I can only conclude that you no longer want that, and I acknowledge that it may have nothing to do with me. (I’ve started going to therapy, by the way.) I’m sorry to suddenly cut you off like this. Let me know if you’d like to talk about it, over the phone or in person, whatever works best for you.
Clara, wow, it’s been over a decade since college. I see you’re married, which is good—I’m happy for you. Not to say that every marriage is perfect. I wouldn’t know, having never been in one, but I do hope yours is going well. I just find it disheartening that when I try to tell you I’m happy you don’t acknowledge it. I take that to mean you don’t feel comfortable responding. Maybe you don’t want to re-ignite old feelings, etc., which is O.K. So I will officially stop thinking of you. But, if that’s not what you want, just communicate as much to me. Communication is so important, and it’s an area I’ve been making great strides in.
Alana, sometimes people do get back together, so I don’t think it was that unreasonable for me to suggest it via e-mail. Especially given that I don’t have your new phone number. Though you certainly didn’t owe me a response, it would have been helpful to know you received my note, so that I could have avoided more humiliating ways of reaching out (by that, I’m referring to the Words with Friends request).
Rebecca, I understand that the wounds are still fresh with us, so it almost feels cruel to stop thinking of you. But what choice do you leave me? I watch your Instagram Stories and send emojis, and yet you don’t watch my Instagram Stories back. I only became aware that you weren’t watching last week, after clicking on my analytics and accidentally scrolling through my thousand followers. (Things have been picking up for me, followers-wise.) While I offer thoughtful responses to your content, you just mark my messages with a “like,” as if you’re trying to say, “I will acknowledge that I’ve seen your message, but I’m not going to engage.” If that’s what you’re saying, just let me know.
Renée, you may not remember me, but we dated for five days in the eighth grade. We definitely dated. I sent you a note, delivered by Craig Watt, asking if you would go out with me, and you circled “Yes” and wrote down your phone number with a little pink heart. Unfortunately, we didn’t cross paths the rest of that day, or the next (Friday), so, over the weekend, I called you from a pay phone. Your mom answered, and by the time you got to the phone my three minutes were almost up. We had a laugh about how I only brought one quarter, and then we got cut off. Which was kind of romantic, if you think about it. That Monday, you broke up with me via your friend Hilary, who approached me during dodgeball, handed me the note, and said, “I’m so sorry.” At that exact moment, Chauncey Dalton—the Babe Ruth of our middle school—released a screamer that caught me right on the solar plexus. I had to unfold your origami on the sidelines, the welt of the ball still fresh on my chest, while the lead of your No. 2 pencil did the rest. Just like that, I was out of your life and out of the dodgeball finals. I’ve never cried that hard before or since, though it’s difficult to parse how much was caused by you and how much by Chauncey’s raw strength—he went on to play minor-league baseball. I see you’re in Arizona now, doing art therapy. That sounds really cool. Given that you are in the business of healing, I think you’ll understand why I have to stop thinking of you. Unless I hear from you soon—just let me know. We can talk on the phone for more than twenty seconds this time, haha.
