You’re happy. And it’s just for you. Maybe letting go has nothing to do with her. And maybe beneath the glittering facade there is a putrid swamp filled with pain, enveloped in darkness. Maybe she’s sunk so deep into it that she can’t even see herself, that she’s become someone else entirely. And you’re getting out before the eruption comes. You’re getting out in time to save yourself from what she’s become. And your happiness is yours to share, to hold sacred. And you are better off for it.
You’ll get drunk to take the pain away. You’ll dance but you’ll get sick. You’ll awaken the next day hungover with a headache splitting your skull right down the middle. And in the morning you still won’t have a damn clue what’s going on in your own heart, or in hers. And anything said to the contrary is probably bullshit. This is your life. You’ll try to live each day like it’s okay. But let’s be real. It’s not okay. How could it be? You’re broken and the one you love is four thousand miles away doing god knows what with herself. And these letters. They’re a practice in futility. A practice in what? Trying to get away? Trying to let go? Trying to reason with your irrationality? It is what it is, Zoey. And what it is, is something far beyond anything you could possibly understand. But hey. Enjoy that hangover.