The Fifth Letter


At this point if you haven’t figured out who she is… at least her name… That says a lot about you. Yet, it says more about me that I write about her this way.

All young men write about the women they love in secret, the ones they’ll never love, or be allowed to love and have. I am not particularly different, as far as young men go.

I should admit that I always knew this moment would come, not a moment as such but a period of acceptance: she is where she is and I am where I am, and there’s nothing wrong with that. We may never be more than friends, plain friends, boring fat lazy happy friends, the “So-and-So has a boyfriend now/ is getting married/ is pregnant/ You-Don’t-Say!/ OMG! LOL!/ I-Hate-This-Weather” kind of friends.

Every time I went deeper, she went deeper. Ultimately, I had to stop and face the possibility that this is all it’ll ever be. We’re here and we can’t go further. With her, I couldn’t push to pull. When I pushed she moved, not push back, or pull.

I am glad, all in. This is one fight with my ego that I didn’t lose. I stopped trying to be the hero, the lover and conqueror of yore, who would pursue his desires until death. Desire is only fulfilling to itself, much like a fire burns because that’s all fires can do: burn. It was fun while it lasted, lying to myself that things would’ve turned out differently.

Don’t get me wrong: I don’t blame her, nor do I blame myself. I am only human. Now, a more reasonable human.

Think this through to the end.

Then….. what? She drops her life for mine and we live happily ever after? Maybe this is an admission that she isn’t my type. Finally, that we just don’t along well enough to be that person to each other. The knowing is cathartic and unburdening. I can handle whatever happens now, not that anything happens as far as we’re concerned. Anything.