A letter is a fucked up way to break up, and probably still the best, so long as everyone is on the same page.

Maybe, for whatever reason, you came to doubt my word. Maybe you were playing me from the beginning, or since I went silent. Maybe I just never understood you the way I thought I did. It doesn’t matter now.

It did, you know. And for some time. I’ve spent many, many hours staring at your window, desperate for any sign. But now, as the days get shorter, the sessions have gone longer and longer and I have realized that you’re not coming back. I suspected as much, back in May, and began looking for ways in, but the place you now call yours is impossibly far and nigh impregnable for the same reason you are there, and not someone else; a shared, unspoken secret.

I gave you the most control, out of the five, and now that is my problem to solve. I’m writing you now because time is up – dead, actually – and that sound you hear is tempos rising; a song I’m writing just for you.