Dear You,
Well this is probably the third or fourth letter I've written you.
We fight a lot, don't we?
But we always make up. I always apologize and grovel and beg and get on my knees and say I wish we were talking.
I'm sick of it.
I want you as a friend. You are my best friend. Why does it feel like a time bomb? Like I'm walking through a mine field when I talk to you?
Now I'm repeating myself, like a broken record.
I try to tell myself I don't care. I try to tell myself to wait out the storm.
But I have to do something. The storm won't go away until I do.
It's frustrating how I worry and think and write cute little journal entries about how to fix our latest fight when you could care less.
What am I trying to say?
I guess I better work on my latest apology about how I'm sorry for everything.
But I'm not. I don't even know what I did.
But apologies always worked in the past, didn't it?
Sincerely,
Your Love-Hate Relationship