Lennon,
It’s been a year since I lost you.
Your song’s been nominated for a Grammy.
Why aren’t you calling me?
Fucking call me. Yell at me. Scream at me.
Tell the world what I did.
Tell them I’m a fraud.
Tell them I’m a piece of shit.
Put me out of my goddamn misery before I do it myself.
Fuck you, Lennon.
I stole your words, but you stole my heart.
There’s only one letter left. And the sinking feeling in my chest tells me I already know what will be on this page.
Lennon,
It’s been one year, six months, and eleven days since I lost you.
I couldn’t take it anymore, so I got in my car and kept driving.
I drove all the way to Dartmouth so I could see you.
And I did.
With another guy.
You smiled at him, like you used to smile at me.
You kissed him, like you used to kiss me.
I told myself not to pursue you.
I told myself not to get attached to you.
I used to joke that I’d never have a broken heart because that would require me having one of those to begin with and my mom took it with her when she left.
But I think whatever remnants she didn’t take belonged to you.
But now those remnants are extinguished.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I thought you didn’t call me because you were angry or too scared to confront me or some shit.
But it’s because you moved on.
Which means I didn’t just lose you temporarily, like I’ve been telling myself.
I lost you for good.
Guess it’s time I move on, too.
This is the last letter I’ll write.
The last letter I won’t mail.
The last night I’ll let myself think about you.
My brain immediately jumps into self-preservation mode, desperately trying to convince me that it doesn’t change what he did.
That he could have written these recently and placed them here for me to find.
That I shouldn’t trust him.
But the organ inside my chest reminds me that he’s been on tour for the past eight weeks, and he had no idea I’d be joining him so there was no way he could have planted these before he left.
Hell, he didn’t even want me to come into this room.
This whole time, I convinced myself that Phoenix only thought about me when he sang or heard my song, because he didn’t have a choice.
But that’s not true. He thought about me a lot.
And he not only felt remorse…he felt pain.
My mind flits back to something Storm told me at the beginning of tour.
“He’s been in a bad place and I can’t pull him out of it. I thought it was the accident, but looking back, that was just the catalyst. His head’s been fucked for a while now, and he’s one mistake away from becoming the person he never wanted to be.”
“What are you doing?”
His tone isn’t aggravated or threatening.
It’s jagged and broken.
I turn around, attempting, but failing, to get a handle on my emotions.
Everything I feel is pouring out of me in one big tidal wave. “Why didn’t you mail any of the letters?”
If he had mailed even one, it would have changed things. Maybe not everything, but at least I wouldn’t have hated him so much.
I would have been open to possibly having a conversation with him at some point.
At least I would have known he cared.
Closing his eyes, he scrubs a hand down his face. “How do you make someone believe you’re sorry when you’re living your dream because you stole it from them?”
I’ve never been in that position, so I haven’t a clue.
“I don’t know.” My voice cracks and my heart rises and sinks. “But I don’t want to spend our last night like this.”
I don’t want to think about what he did.
I don’t want to think about how much it hurts.
I don’t want to think about what his letters mean or how they change things.
I just want him.
I take a step and then several more, until I’m closing the distance between us and peering up at him.
His knuckles brush my jaw as he searches my face. “What do you want?”
Just one thing.
And he’s the only one who can do it.
“I want you to burn me.”
Raw hunger fills his expression before he grips the nape of my neck and slants his mouth over mine.
His kiss steals the air from my lungs and the strength from my knees.
My nails dig into his biceps as his tongue slides against mine, claiming me, owning me.
Our choppy breathing fills the air as he leads me through the house and up the stairs, kissing me like there’s a clock we’re racing against and we’re running out of time Because we are.