The thing I feel most compelled to say is "I'm sorry," but I'm not exactly sure what I'm sorry for and I'm against empty apologies.
I'm writing this with the pencils you got me. What if these were the good luck charm on my LSAT? What if you were my good luck charm -- the sun always seems to find you, bad situations slide right off your back. "There was my jacket in the middle of the trail, untouched!" Your wallet waiting for you at Jay Peak, your parents overnighting your passport to you after your ID got buried in new snow at Kirkwood. I resented the magic that seemed to follow you around.
But maybe you were the magic. You and your clear attentive eyes, your easy smile, your hair that somehow looked more perfect the less you did to it. Why was that so hard for me to see?
I didn't (don't) believe in my own magic. "You have something special, You're different," you told me in November. Do you understand how badly I crave hearing that? How every overthinking, overanalyzing, overprotective part of me dreams that I'm special?
You do. It's so hard for me to fully understand, for some reason, that you know how badly I want that because that's what you want, too. I can't decide on my next sentence, so here are two choices:
a) I made you one-dimensional. I created a story of who you were in my head, and only added the evidence that fit my thesis.
b) I think too much about my own thinking. My meta-analysis skills are wonderful and horrible - I'm so busy swimming around in my own head that I shut reality out.
So I'll return to I'm sorry. I want there to be one moment that I could go back to and blame, but in reality there are millions. There are also millions on wonderful moments -- tender kisses, you carrying me to bed, loaded eye contact across the room, silly road trip dance parties, you squeezing my hand on chair lifts and ferris wheels, the perfect rhythm we always seemed to find in moments when the world around us was chaos.
Why can't there be a "right" answer? Why isn't there magic in this part of the story?
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