The little notes that you write me are beautiful. Your scrawl and little drawing in the margins make me feel like I know you. When, to be honest, I don’t. You are one of the few people in this school of stereotypes that I am still trying to figure out. But you seem like he have it all under control; you know that you’ll merge your own path and that you don’t need anyone else to make you happy. In that way, I’m envious. Insecurity and innocence let me feel that I need someone to take care of me, to guide me, to give me strength when I need it the most. You aren’t like that. And I often wonder how this all began. I guess one day you saw me, sort of in an angelic way, and knew that I needed you. In some pathetic twist of fate, you choose me. Over everyone. All the beautiful, flirtatious girls. You found me. And I’m glad. Your notes inspire me, and I see the beauty in things that I ordinary would not have. Your smile lights up my day and I can feel your laugh radiating warmth through the letter. I love you, you know this. And I don’t hesitate to call you my best friend. Yet, you thought that it would be okay to leave me. And I try to make up excuses for you; saying that you know I’ll be fine without you. But I can’t keep lying to myself. You left me, simple as that. With no explanation, hoping that I could find a reason to cover the tattered feelings of both of us. And I miss you terribly. But you aren’t the person who I thought you were. So I guess there’s nothing real left to miss. This is all I have to be thankful for.