For Her, Sydney Hainy

For Her By Sydney Hainey

A love letter to the one I never loved.

I’m scared. Staring at these words I write to you I know I’m not in control. I feel forced, I have to. Otherwise I will hold them inside me forever, getting shakier and shakier with each movement, each day. I know everything I tell you is the truth.

I’m waiting. I feel like I’m always waiting. I don’t know what for. It isn’t for just anyone. My whole life I feel like I’ve been waiting for the next thing. Right now, the package you sent me consumes my mind. If I don’t speak to you, I will lose everything. If I do, I’m sure I won’t hear what I want to hear. I’m not sure what the appropriate response would be. But I know the wrong one would tear me to pieces.

I don’t want to bother you. That’s my greatest fear, I think. I’m embarrassed that I’ve held on this long. When I’m with other people I’m not sure what to do with myself. I know it is wrong.

I’m reading a book right now. It’s called The Idiot. I’m not sure why it speaks to me so clearly. Everything that she thinks I know I have thought before. And there are those words, written plainly on the page. It surprises me every time. I think you would enjoy it.

I hate seeing you in the shirt I gave you. It brings me far too much joy, far too much false hope. It makes me feel insane. I’m sure you think it’s just a nicety. I looked outside as the mailman pulled up to our house. It is Sunday at 10:45. The package is not mine. It is not yours. I’m filled with so much doubt. Each memory I have is underlaid with a feeling that it is not my own. That I imagined it all. I sound so frivolous and ridiculous. I cannot stop.

I hate writing. It only reminds me of you. When I get praise for my writing, I am so proud of myself, so surprised that anything I do is worthwhile, that someone can read my words and feel something that is mine, only mine. I feel like a fake person. I’ve tricked everyone around me into thinking I’m real, but I’m not. I can’t be.

The record player I got for Christmas has found its place on my desk. Only one record feels right, I listen to it over and over. I feel that way about love too. I’ve found I either fall in love instantly or have absolutely no feelings towards someone. Either way is not right.

I love the way you write. I love the way you make things, create them out of nowhere. I don’t know how you do it. I love that you stay up all night and feel the same things that I feel. I love the way you decide things. I love that you’ve never made me mad. I’m the furthest from angry. I love that you don’t read fiction. I love that you only eat what is familiar to you. Even though I am the opposite. I think a lot about the line “He said it’s all in your head/I said so is everything, but he didn’t get it.” You get it. I know you do. That much I’m sure about. I don’t know if I love you. At least not completely. I can only make such a fool out of myself than I’m already doing.

I wonder if you still think about me. I could never know. I can only guess. I’ll always guess in my own favor.