Aaron,

I know this letter will never reach you. I know it will lie in the dusty corners of my room and stay hidden in the tiny crevices of my heart. It will never pass your hands and you will never know this all consuming anxiety I feel because of you.

So many times I've wanted to tell you. I dropped so many hints, waited so expectantly for the question "What's wrong?" that you never asked. It seems like ever since we broke up, you let my words slide so carelessly off your back, so oblivious to my desperation for you to just hear me.

Do you listen anymore? Do you care anymore?

You said you wanted to stay friends. You emphasized that everything would be the same: we would still have long, meandering conversations on the phone . . . still chat and jest and joke. You said our friendship before this love affair would endure. And blindly, I believed you.

But now I know better. I regret the day we broke up. Because in spite of how sincere you seemed, you lied. A great divide lies between us now and I can feel you distant and out of reach. It has been two months now and any form of communication holding us tentatively together comes from me. How naive I was to believe your true intention was to stay friends.

But now, I've taken the hint. I am tired of always being the one to call and be denied. I am tired of the I- can't- talk- that- long's and maybe- I- should- let- you- go's. I am tired of you falling asleep with me on phone. I am tired of feeling so stupid and foolish for letting you play with my heart.

So I am letting you go. I called you Tuesday and told you so. I said this was the last time I would call you and that I was not going to step down. I said I was going to take our three years of history and friendship and throw it out. I said I was sick of this.

But maybe you didn't hear me because you were falling asleep.

Goodbye forever, Aaron.