InsaneJournal

Hey, Cass.

It's been six and a half months, to the day. Not that "to the day" matters much when you throw in something like "and a half," but I'm a writer, and I am allowed certain fanciful additions.

I still miss you. Every day.

I think about dating again, sometimes. It's not that I'm not ready for it. I've been attracted to people, I've flirted. The girl at the coffee shop thinks girl-me has a nice caboose. But I'm still in love with you. Does that make any sense, at all? That I can imagine myself being content with someone else while still half-consumed with thoughts of you? Maybe not. But I'm still at that point where I can imagine myself breaking some girl's heart if you showed up. And I don't want to be that person.

I guess I'm writing this letter because I know there'll eventually come a point where I can fall in love with someone else so completely that I wouldn't immediately come running back to you. It's difficult to think. I almost don't want it to happen. It's as if clinging to the hope that you'll return is as close as I can come to having you.

I know it's not what you'd want. It's not what I'd want for you. Wherever you are, all I hope is that you're happy, and that you've found someone who can make you happier. But for me... well, I'm going to be selfish a little while longer and not think about what you'd have me do.

I love you, Cassandra.

Yours still,

Jason.

So I'm told that bitches ain't shit.

I could use some verification on this. Are bitches shit? Are they hoes or, in fact, tricks?

I will investigate for science!