I need to write,

but the page is too wide; too intimidating in its emptiness.

I think it is to you I need write to. Maybe that will suffuse my words with the courage they need to take on worth and meaning. I will not beg; I will not plead. You did not think me mature enough to understand, to concede, but now you will never know, will you?

I remember thinking, whilst on the phone with you that last time that I really didn't care if you had found a companion. It hurt, but I hurt more knowing that I was simply being given a bad excuse by you to be rid of me. It mattered more to me that we did not talk.

Words unspoken, and lines unwritten. That's all that I'm left with now.