God, I’d written him so many times, and I’d said so much. I’d written drunk, sober, and sobbing, huddled up on the train at two a.m. or staring up the air shaft before dawn. I’d emptied out my broken heart, and I’d meticulously detailed each and every one of my many insecurities. I’d whined about how horrible my life was, and most of all, how dreadful and awful I was.
