Everything is quiet when I close my eyes. 

But when I open them, a thousand images are flashing through me. 

Steep each packet in hot water for 5-7 minutes.  It works wonders.

I don’t want to see them, don’t want to hear them. 

Between me and music, which would you choose?

Still, I can’t help it. 

I didn’t know someone as wonderful as you existed.

The words escape carelessly and the thoughts flood in with every breath I take. 

You. I have you.

I love you. Very much.

Do I deserve this?

* * *

                It’s my last day.  At the academy. 

                I don’t want to go back.  School life really isn’t what I thought it would be.  It’s not the drama, not the teachers, not the indolence of studying.  It’s the books and papers that entice the weak side in me.  It’s nothing but a lot of words that mean nothing and a lot of pictures that mean too many things.  Continuing the life of a student is just another temptation to dig up everything again. 

It’s been a while since I was the Tao who kept awake at night to be miserable.  The Tao who knew nothing but pain and the shards of the past.  The Tao who didn’t know love from hate.  But I’m different now.

Yesterday, I received something that helped me decide.  Now I know how to choose between letting go and holding on. 

My gift was tucked sloppily under the space that was meant to separate nothingness and reality; the crack of the door.  I had bent down to retrieve it, and found that there was no name or address written on it. 

It was a book.  A music book.  And I knew who it was from, who it was for.

If I were the Tao from a long time ago, I would have opened it, flipped through it hurriedly, and thrown it into the box in the closet. 

But I’m not. Anymore.

So I opened it carefully, savoring the rows of penned ink and surging notes.  Everything was familiar to me, as if I’d read it hundreds of times, even though I had never observed its contents.  I recognized my own handwriting in the inside of the front cover.

The two words, Thank you that I seemed to have left behind ages ago. 

And as I turned through the pages, a separated sheet drifted carelessly to the floor.  The distant photograph of me with hasty writing in the margins.   

I’m sorry I stole this from you.  And I’m sorry that I took your heart with it, too.

This morning, I had folded back the covers and felt the shock of the cold, wooden floor against my bare feet.

I had shrugged out of my worn t-shirt and into a clean one, glancing at myself in the mirror.

Like any other morning, the reflection facing the bed mocked me with the blurry reflection of a defiant twenty-year-old.  The front of my hair was stubborn, and refused to smooth no matter how hard I tried.  My arms and legs had lengthened and my shoulders widened.

I was surprised when I looked at myself in the eyes.  They weren’t red and swollen.  My neck and back didn’t ache with exhaustion and my breaths were strong.

I remembered that morning, so many mornings ago, when I would have scuffled miserably to open the nightstand drawer.  I remembered the pain of watching myself lead a show of ugly promises. 

But now, as I sit at my tired writing desk, my body warm with hopefulness, I read the letter written on the very last page of the book.  Again.

They say that love doesn’t last forever, and neither will separation.

I used to think true love only existed in fairytales.   But as I was writing this, I began to smile, thinking of you.  So Tao, tell me.  Was this true love?  Or are we useless characters in a scripted fantasy?

They say that when two different people lack the same thing, they will come together. We’ve both been out of true feelings for so long, it must have been a beautiful thing to have each other.

So I’m sorry that we’ve decided to love this way. 

If I could live the time with you all over again, maybe I wouldn’t have let you climb through my window.  Or maybe you shouldn’t have shown up at the academy at all that Friday morning, so that I wouldn’t have met you and loved you and hated you, all at the same time. 

I love you for loving me and I hate you for not hating me.  That’s just how things will be.

Saying I love you.  That wasn’t a lie, even though it seems like it now.  Letting you go yet wanting you next to me isn’t greed, even though it is.

If I tell you not to wait for me, then you’ll do the exact opposite.  Instead, I’ll make you promise not to forget me, so that I know you will. 

It’s so easy to move on but even easier to want to turn around.  You are stronger than the whims of human nature.

Remember that.

And this book, since you’ve received it, will be yours.  That way, you will be in possession of the two most important things I could have ever held between my hands. 

My music.  And you.

                There’s nothing left in the nightstand drawers for me to cry about, no candles left to burn.  Just short gushes of happiness to remember.

And I will not turn back.