An Open Letter to The Girl Who Got Away

Dearest Girl Who Got Away,

Forgive me for taking so long to finally reach out, but I just wasn’t ready before this moment. I am now a 29 1/2 year-old man, as opposed to the 29 year-old child you knew. I am writing you because I was recently cleaning out my apartment at the request of my landlord (he’s showing off the place to potential tenants). You see, I thought my place was quite clean, but didn’t argue out of fear that some issue would lead to me losing my security deposit or something. If that were to happen, I would have to live with regret, which I can’t stand. I’m fine with guilt. I think guilt is healthy, actually. It keeps me thin. Most people tend to think I have a fine metabolism or that I still smoke, but my real diet is guilt. You see, regret interferes with sleep patterns and I just can’t have that. Sleep is too important. So when my landlord asked me to clean up my place, I simply smiled and said, “Sure thing, Jerry. Take it easy, have a great day.” And I walked upstairs, leaving him shaking his head at what a perfect tenant I turned out to be.

I didn’t have much to clean, but I did come across a small box. Inside, next to my childhood favorite toy–a small Star Wars Storm Trooper figurine–was a small bottle of Jack Daniels Tennessee Honey. This was your drink of choice the second night we hung out. You never finished the tiny bottle, and I kept it in hopes we could enjoy it somewhere down the road. Though not particularly fond of sweetened spirits, I would have gladly made the effort to stomach it down if you joined in. 

I remember the first time I saw you. I picked you up at a train station. You handed me your luggage like I was the Help. I could tell you had no interest in small talk, which was understandable based on our frustrating phone call the day before as we coordinated plans to meet and head to our contract gig in Springfield. You later told me that I acted like an imbecile! But nothing could change that the moment I saw you, I knew you were my type. In fact, I think that was the exact moment I realized I had a type. And my type happened to be wearing her reading glasses and a snug white top. 

I’m not too sure how it started, but my splashing you with water for the tenth time prompted you to playfully shove me. Contact was made. We were on fire. And it was then that I knew that I wanted to spend the rest of my life annoying the shit out of you. It didn’t even matter that we’d have to prolong our engagement a few years so that we could, you know, get to know one another. I just figured we would have more time to plan the wedding.

Ours wasn’t a novelty act — we got along, bantered well. We drank on rooftops with friends and some hammered white guy who got us past security and bought us shots. (Remember that guy?) There were FaceTime talks deep into the early morning hours. You shared which qualities you inherited from your parents. Your dream vacation was Ireland. Your favorite pizza joint blew mine out of the water. I remember a day at the art museum, painting masks, and performance arts. And I remember looking over at you, thinking you had this beauty to you that was all invitation and tease. You were quick to tell me you weren’t looking for anything serious.

I should have taken that as a warning. Also, you were diving head first into the hell that is medical school. Also, you had a super intense internship. Also, you were working side gigs in your spare time. Also, your Spanish was far and away superior to mine, which left me looking like a fool at times. Also, you loved dancing. Also, you were on good terms with your ex. And this is just evidence that to me speaks well of you.

Did all of these pieces add up to a red flag? Try a massive, rippling banner of war. But maybe that’s why I didn’t see it—too big. I don’t know, maybe I thought I could beat the system. Maybe I thought I could be the exception. Maybe I just really liked you.

I remember our last conversation. We wished each other a Happy Thanksgiving. You told me you had to work that night. I couldn’t believe people actually went out on Thanksgiving Day. I mean, Jesus Christ, take the night off and spend it with your mother! Anyways, a couple weeks passed without us speaking. You were working. I was, too. Then I received the call from work: They were bidding on a project that, if landed, would ship me off to London for a couple of months.

“That’s awfully close to Ireland,” I thought to myself.

Unfortunately, by this time it seemed all but certain that I’d never see you again. So I did what any sensible and high-functioning Neanderthal would do: I grabbed the small bottle of Tennessee Honey, still 3/4 full, and poured myself a drink. Sweet and sticky to the touch, tasting of parfait, I took a sip while staring at the Storm Trooper figurine. In retrospect, I think I put that Storm Trooper in there to guard it, like an Egyptian burial site or something, but I’m not too sure.

It was through my silly, sophomoric male pride that we slipped apart. You simply couldn’t take me seriously, which in retrospect is fair considering that I couldn’t even take myself seriously. Well, that and I lied to you pretty early on, falsely claiming that I stopped smoking weed. I still haven’t quit, by the way. But you see, when we hold people to this gold standard and expect to not be let down, we really destroy what’s best. I apologize for lying to you without compunction. The loss is as always, mine.

Unless, of course, you are available this weekend. Then perhaps we could arrange to meet up for a drink. I know it’s been a minute, but maybe it’s worth a shot if you are, in fact, interested. I mean, if you’re dating or engaged or something, then disregard this. Unless you’re unhappy in said arrangement. Then, perhaps, we could work something out. So let me know, I’ve got a family function on Saturday that I’d gladly set aside! Write back soon!

Un Abrazo Fuerte,

Tu Imbécil