This is totally fucking based on Why We Broke Up by Daniel Handler bc i think he's an amazing author. This is in ur POV so if u don't like it then suck my dick (not really im kidding ily). ANYWHORE. thanks for reading; enjoy!
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Dear Steve,
I wanna tell you something about that night at the bar, I want to explain what I meant when I told you I still loved you.
...
"I love the Fall, like, so much." Marcia - you know Marcia - said to me as we strolled through the park on that cool Wednesday afternoon.
"Steve fucking hated the Fall. Like, so much."
You did hate the Fall, Steve, like, so much. You would never understand what it was like to smell it - the crisp leaves, the coffee, the pumpkin, the fucking wind - because you couldn't. You couldn't smell the Fall, Steve; and that's why we broke up.
"You need to stop thinking about him. He's not worth it. How long had he been seeing that one girl, Sharon, behind your back?" She scolded. "Two months, or was it three?"
"It was two and a half," I sniffled dramatically, making her roll her eyes at me.
"Right. Well, you know Randy, right?"
"Randy, Bobby's friend?" I groaned, knowing already about the fag with curly, black hair. God, how atrocious he was. But I'd date him, Steve; I'd date him if it meant you'd hate me.
"You know he needs a girl," she pleaded, "and he's super sweet..."
"That's a load of-" and then I saw you with her. With Sharon. And, oh, my God! It hurt like a bitch, because fuck, Steve: I loved you.
I gasped dramatically, like in those stupid fucking movies, and swallowed. I looked away before you even noticed me, and, though I knew I would regret it, I told Marcia I'd go out on a date with Randy.
I knew that that night was going to end terribly the moment I sat down at the the fancy restaurant he'd taken me to, because he immediately began to try to play footsie with me. His dress shoe ran along my leg until I finally grew a pair and excused myself from the table, walking torwards the restroom.
I walked out - after a couple minutes of debating on whether I should leave or not - to find him flirting with the waiter, a tiny blonde chick with yellow teeth and big, hoop earrings. I watched her sit down in my seat, and I thought: Am I really that bad to be around?
I left, but only after stealing some really good mints from the hot guy at the reception desk.
So there I was, alone on the dark streets of Tulsa, my heels in my hands, my feet sore - God,they were so sore - when you, of all people, showed up out of nowhere.
You asked me how I'd been doing.
I told you I was fine.
You probably already knew, but I lied to you that night, Steve. I was not fine at all. Like, at all.
You asked if I wanted to go to the bar, and then I asked you about Sharon. You told me not to worry about Sharon, so I didn't.
We sat there, at the bar, laughing and dancing, yelling and drinking - it was beautiful, Steve. I felt...okay. I felt right.
And then we were too drunk to stand, so when the bar closed at four A.M. we just sat against the brick wall of the building, sharing cancer sticks and cuddles, giggling at each other.
I was so careless with what I said that the words just rolled off my tongue like drool, or something; and I know you remember, because the look in your eyes told me you'd never forget.
You stopped in the middle of a fit of giggles, your eyes softening. I knew that I loved you, but I'd never meant to say it.
Honestly, I missed our little cuddles, the ones where I'd read to you and you'd get bored and whine in the middle of my sentences. I miss our little kisses to the forehead, or nose, or cheek, or anywhere. I miss our little fights, our little dances in the middle of the Curtis' kitchen, our little gifts to one another, our little everythings. Those things meant so much to me.
They weren't little to me.
But the truth is - the painful truth is.
..that you don't miss any of that. I know you don't, because if you did, then you'd be moping around - like myself - but you're not. You're with Sharon.
You're hers, Steve: you were always hers, and that's why we broke up.
