I saw you again in December. Before the night turned into a thousand different colors and another year struck the clock. Can you believe it's been six years since we first met? I remember clutching my bag and waving goodbye to the life we knew. One last smile. One last look into your eyes. With every year we've gotten older and wiser. We've both moved on, too. It's only fair that after so long, our hearts finished healing and started beating again. I heard you're still not over her. I know she's not over you. Sometimes I catch myself looking at pictures of you and her. People loved you together. I sometimes think that maybe if we had continued, people would have loved us too. Maybe they could have seen what I saw in you, in us. I don't know why I'm writing to you today. It's not like I will ever send this to you. It's a beautiful spring day today but all I seem to want to do is stay in bed and think of the past. The sad. The beautiful. The tragic. You were all of those. I don't want to be with you anymore. It's just this empty sense of longing that has managed to stick all these years. This sense that I need to find a great love or I will never truly move on. You texted me last year. It was a voice note. You were drunk. You used to do that a lot a long time ago. Old habits die hard. I listened to it 100 times like I used to do. I didn't answer, though. It didn't seem appropriate. You probably regretted it the morning after and maybe you were relieved I didn't reply. I'm re