If I could paint you a picture of all the misery you had unknowingly put me through, it’d be too grotesque you may want to wish you hadn’t even caught a glimpse of it.
If I could paint you a picture of all the happiness you brought into my life before my downfall, it’d be incomplete, though all sunshine and rainbows that you wish you could see more.
I wish the latter had continued. I wish the separation had been done a lot more peacefully; not so abrupt, not like you just laid it all down for me in carefully constructed sentences because you didn’t want to hurt me but that’s the irony of it all. You did. At the same time, it’s not fully your fault either.
And ever since, I can’t paint beautifully anymore. They either end up being too messy, or I couldn’t deal with it and just crumple it–chuck it elsewhere, most probably the bin. I miss you so much and I wish we’re still talking, still good friends, still sharing our thoughts and opinions but with something new: having a barrier.
But I get what you said. Continuing from where we left off or being too normal with each other could result in me facing a bigger loss.
I’m sorry. I’m just really sad it had to be this way and I think you can tell. Nevermind. I hope you’re healthy and maybe one day I could catch up with you. Can I?