Page 172 of Splintered Hearts

I should thank him, though.

I thought I was sure when we fell asleep on the couch after I drew you. I couldn’t help it. My fingers were already moving the moment I sat down, watching your brows furrow with concentration as you updated your book log.

I knew for sure at the lake house. It was undeniable. I’d never shared so many parts of myself before. I wanted you to know me, but I was scared because you’re beautiful and kind and caring and I’m me.

Ugly and broken.

So instead, I drew.

I drew after you drew that little penis on my chest.

I drew a picture after we had sex for the first time.

I drew after I was trying to cook for you at the lake house.

After we read books together.

While you lay on the couch or slept next to me.

I captured it all because in those moments I felt way too much. You make me feel so much. All of this to say... Not very well, I know, I’m sorry. You are the writer. I am not. All of this to say... I love you, Noah.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

Fuck, I will say it on repeat until the day I die. I am so fucking in love with you. You are the most incredible, funny, sweet, amazing man I’ve ever met in my life. I didn’t treat you like that, though, and I am really sorry about that.

I never had anyone teach me how to be a good man. I want to put the work in. I have been putting the work in. Like I said. Fucking therapy. That shit is intense, but it’s worth it if it meansI can come out of it a better person. A better person for you and for myself.

Even if you don’t want me. That’s fine. Just know that I’m always here for you. I will always be here for you, Noah. No matter what. At the end of this you don’t have to be mine, but know that I’ll always be yours.

Always.

If you need more time you can go ahead and take that sketchbook, if you want it. If you don’t, I’ll just keep looking in it like I have been. If you need more time, that’s okay. I understand. I’ll wait however long I need to.

But—and only if you feel one hundred percent sure you want to try with me again—please go into my room. Now, if it’s been like ten years and you’re just finding this, I cannot tell you the state I’ll be in. I’m hoping you do this right away because I’m impatient and I miss you so goddamn much.

I know I have to wrap this up but I’m honestly scared. I deserve whatever’s coming, I know that. I lashed out at you for no reason and I’ll be sorry every day for the rest of my life. Just know I’m trying to change.

I’m going to stop writing now.

No matter what you choose, just please make sure it’s the right choice for you. That’s all I want, Noah. I want you to be happy.

No matter what.

I tuck the letters inside the sketchbook, unsure of what to do. I don’t move. All the words from these letters form a tornado inside my chest. Jamie’s sorry and I knew that weeks ago. I knew it when he told me his story. I knew it when I saw him at dinner and when I told him I was finding another place to live.

I knew he was sorry.

Instead of moving, I sit here, and try to leave my emotions outof this and just think logically for a moment. It’s hard because yeah, I miss him too. I love him just as hard. I’m hesitant, though, to take him back. I can’t carry the emotional burden for someone else. I just can’t do it. What I want is a partner, someone who lifts me up just as much as I lift them. Jamie couldn’t solely rely on me... which I told him.

In return, Jamie started therapy. That thought alone is funny to think about. Jamie doesn’t like to talk about shit, so sitting down with a stranger is so far removed from the man he was months ago when I moved in here. He’s putting the work in, mending things with his family, and taking a hard look at himself. I’m proud of him.

Jamie wants to show me he can change, that he wants to change, and I respect that. It can’t have been an easy thing.

My mind is made up.

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