He's written me three times. Three. It took him two weeks to fulfill that promise.
Not perfect letters, not anything particularly special, but letters nonetheless.
Like he said he would.
Like YOU said you would.
It's been a year. And it's hard to explain how you not sending me a letter is what still cuts me up about our relationship, but it's taken on so much more meaning than just a silly letter.
By not fulfilling your promise, a promise that you've renewed time and time again ("I'll write it, I promise." "It's still in the works, it's coming.") you showed me, and continue to show me, how very little my own desires were to you. It didn't really matter what I wanted if it was in contradiction to what you wanted.
And I'll never get that damn letter. Just like you'd never think about doing what I wanted if it meant exerting even the slightest effort or going even a little bit against what you wanted.
I was with you for two years and you couldn't write me a fucking letter.
He did it in two weeks. That boy that you look down upon so much, that you viciously judge and revile-- he made the same promise as you did and he came through before you.
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