letter 23 – the last person you kissed
I could string together a long list of Taylor Swift lyrics to try and explain how I feel about you, but I have a feeling it wouldn’t help much.
Because I hate the way you drive me crazy. The way you can’t make up your mind about anything, but you’re so sure of everything. I hate the way you call me in the middle of the night and I always answer. Or the way I never demand a real answer, a real explanation for anything. I hate the way you annoy me fifty percent of the time and the other half I think we could be best friends.
And I hate that all I want — all I really want — is to be your friend.
Because you would kiss me every Friday night for the next year and a half if you wanted to. You would, probably. And it wouldn’t bother you that you didn’t know what you wanted or you didn’t ask what I wanted.
But I can’t be that girl for you. I can’t be the kind of girl who listens and shares and throws her whole heart out there because she knows you’ll understand. Because she knows you’ve been there too.
I want to be. I want to be your best friend in the world, sometimes. But I don’t want to be two sides of the same coin. Not two girls with two different functions in two different settings. I can’t be your Friday night girl. Your lonely-at-three-in-the-morning girl.
Not unless it means driving around a small town with the radio on low in the background. Or walking past cornfields and cow pastures on cold nights in the middle of autumn. Or circling parking lots on brisk evenings in early spring.
Not unless it means that and only that. I can’t be anything more.
Because if you grew up with me, we could’ve spent early mornings at the Limerick Diner conversing over coffee. Because we relate to each other. We understand each other. We are each other, maybe.
Maybe that’s why it can’t be me and you. Or at least a major reason.
Friends is a funny concept. It means saying what you need to say, what you want to say, and not having to worry about the other person’s reaction.
I have this problem where I can’t stop talking. Where I start telling you something and I just keep going and I don’t shut up. And I kind of want someone — in this case, you — to smack me upside the head and tell me to be quiet. But you don’t. And it’s weird, being on the other end of the conversation.
Sort of this natural give and take. Me talking and you listening. You talking and me listening. And that’s the part I don’t want to lose. But the rest of it, I can’t be that girl for you. Not anymore.