Some love stories are like waterfalls or canyons. Permanent, but imperfect. Flawed and beautiful and here to stay. Some love stories are like shooting stars, beautiful and flawless and over far too quickly. You were my shooting star. You were my dream come true.

"I can read you like a book." That's the last thing you said to me, with your perfect hazel eyes and smug grin. I am fighting back tears as I write this, as I think about how wrong you are. If you can read me like a book...why didn't you realize I'm in love with you?

It's not your fault, of course not. It was just a summer fling. And you told me you weren't ready for a relationship. And I said I wasn't ready either. I thought I wasn't. I just wanted to have fun with you. But I guess I had a little to much fun because now you're gone and the truth is I'm terrified that I'll never find anyone quite as fun or as handsome and you.

I guess I felt lucky you liked me at all. Me with my clumsy awkwardness, naivety and general incompetence. Why would a perfectly muscular boy, a scholar, an artist with heartbreaking good looks take any interest in me at all? I guess I'll never know.

Now you're gone. Like a shooting star or a melting ice-cream or a beautiful sunset. I couldn't stop myself from imagining a life for us where you stayed. Where I was perfect too, where I was enough for you. Where we stay up all night watching horror movies and cuddling, where I cook for you and tell you about fashion school and you tell me about physics and robots. Where we laugh all day and make love all night and have a wedding and babies and I finally feel like I'm enough. Like someone loves me, like someone wants me in their life forever. Like I'm not the ugly, fat failure I feel like almost every night. But I never told you that either I guess. Flings are supposed to be uncomplicated and telling you about my anorexia, shoving fingers down my throat to make myself throw up or the childhood abuse that left me one step removed from reality, just a bit to close to the clouds to make a home on earth...that was more complicated then you deserved. To ugly. To imperfect.

How can I blame you for failing to love me? I don't even love me. I never have, maybe I never will. Everyone loves you, golden boy. Handsome athlete with a bright future and brighter eyes. And you know they love you. You know you're perfect. You know you deserve the perfect girlfriend I could never be. No matter how badly I want to be her.

Maybe that's why you only mumbled "i love you" but you never said it loud enough for the world to hear. Maybe that's why when you called me "babe" or "honey" you quickly changed the topic. Maybe that's why if you ever saw an I love you lurking behind my sad brown eyes or hidden under my pink lips, you never tried to coax it out of me.

You'll never even know I wanted you in my life forever. And I'll never know what promoted that soft I love you, that sudden hello. I will never send this letter to you. Our future together will remain with my other failures, lost friendships and impossible dreams. Confined to my memory, a daydream so vivid it hurts,

I love you. I love you. I've loved you since our first date, at the carnival. I loved you when you held my hand as fireworks lit up the night sky. I loved you when we were friends and you gave me piggy back rides around the high school gym. I love you and I don't blame you for not loving me. I really do hope you find a girlfriend as beautiful as you.

And as for me? I hope I find someone half as perfect, half as smart, half as beautiful as you were.

With more love then you know,

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