You’d like it here.

Maybe that’s why it feels like you’re miss­ing from every meal, every seat I’ve tak­en at a bistro with the sun on my face, every cor­ner I’ve round­ed with a new expe­ri­ence just beyond.

Wish you were here.

It seems like every let­ter I write you begins with a bout of insom­nia, and the one I wrote on the jour­ney over here was no dif­fer­ent. This time though, it was every­thing left unsaid, a promise to be com­plete­ly hon­est with my feel­ings, an open­ness I’d nev­er shown you before in hopes that it would mean some­thing. I used to take refuge in what I held back, and this let­ter was the very last of myself I had to give. I won­dered how I could get it to you, what lit­tle bauble to include before drop­ping it in a mail­box, just like old times, skip­ping loose stones on the steps to your house.

But noth­ing I could say would change a thing, some­thing I only real­ized when I read it again after a night of sleep (and what a won­der­ful sleep it was). I always ques­tioned what your feel­ings and inten­tions were, and now it’s nev­er been more clear. By this point I only blame myself for not fig­ur­ing that out soon­er, and for tak­ing so long to under­stand that you’ll nev­er be able to give me any sem­blance of clo­sure, well-inten­tioned as you may be. My only excuse is that it was nev­er sim­ply about accept­ing with what we’ve become, it was about com­ing to terms with life and fate too.

My anger used to keep me com­pa­ny, but every fire runs out of fuel, and when the anger reced­ed, I was left with noth­ing but long­ing. That’s why I have to let you go when my heart is calm and my head is clear. Being in Paris this time, among so much stim­u­la­tion and inti­ma­cy in the old city streets, has giv­en me a hap­pi­ness I nev­er knew at home, a hap­pi­ness I nev­er thought was pos­si­ble with­out you.

I’ve nev­er been one to give up on what I believe in, and I believed in you and us and love. That’s why I’ve been cling­ing to this hope, but I’ve loved you long enough. It’s time I start lov­ing myself. It’s a pity I can’t do both, cause I hate myself for lov­ing you.

I’ve car­ried you with me for so long, but when I leave Paris I’ll have to leave you behind too.