It sat precariously on the corner waiting to be opened. Her handwriting scrawled across the front begged me to read further.
My fingers itched to tear in to it. Or apart.
Instead all I could do was manage to poke at it with an accusatory digit.
Deep down I already knew what the letter would say and not say.
It's not that I'm psychic, because I'm really not.
It's because I've read it, heard it, seen it all before with her.
Many, many times.
I don't doubt the sorrow or the embarrassment. I don't even doubt the sincerity expressed.
Maybe I'm just getting cautious with my heart.
Or I'm tired of it all. The games, the worry, the anger, the disappointment of it all.Waiting for "the call" because if she keeps going like this, there will be one.
When does it become too much?
When do you walk away and really not look back?
Ever.
When is it ok to really let go?
ps - partying like it's 1999
