Email to Emi.
Subject: Re: Us.
I am not a girl to own every particle of blame, Emi, and to do so is murdering me. Humbling myself is murdering me. Knowing it truly is all my doing is murdering me. Listening to you or reading your words that say you knew you were right about me all along... and trying not to say what I think...
Emilio, don't you understand that I am hurting, too?
Your anger is justified, but will I have to live the rest of all this with it hanging over my head? Can you truly forgive me? I don't know if you can.
He left and I will forget him over time, just as everyone else who leaves is forgotten. I remember forgetting. I loved someone else once-- I think I did. I don't remember, not truly, only that his name was Jack and his eyes were blue and he liked my red coat.
If this happens. If we are to stay together. Won't you always ask me questions? Won't it always come up in a fight-- if he had stayed, if he had stayed. You may forgive me, but will I ever win your trust again?
I've done my penance in tears. I feel like a husk, dried and empty. I left you so you could have your time, but you are still angry. Every paragraph speaks it. No matter how you love me, you
It is all my fault, Emi, truly it is. I love you. I do. God knows I do, and sometimes it makes no sense. I can't let you go. I can't. My heart cracks in two at the thought of you leaving.
But I'm scared to stay and risk it, having this never go away, this guilt and this sickness I feel. I'm at a loss. I don't know what to do. Leaving kills me. Staying makes me afraid at every turn.
So I stay here in limbo. I pray, sometimes. Did you know I pray? I do.
I pray that I'll be able to swallow my pride and that you will truly forgive me and not just try. I pray we'll make it.
It's only that I can't come home yet. I don't feel like the prayer's reached the right ears.
I love you, Emilio. I miss you. I miss your hand in my back pocket, I miss your smile, I miss you sprawling into me and nearly tipping me out of bed when you sleep. I ache for you in a way I never imagined. It hurts my body to think of you, all of me, every single part of me.
I wish you were here. I wish you knew everything.
This letter isn't enough. Nothing is.
Your aching Principessa,