I wrote you a letter. Seven years ago. I wrote you a letter. On a pink sheet. So you will know it is me before reading it. And to make sure no one else will open it. No one opens a pink sheet letter.

Today, it’s been exactly seven years, since I wrote you that letter. I don’t know how…how it came to…this, but I wrote you a letter.
I imagined you opening it, reading it, and calling me. I had already prepared what I would tell to you.

But you didn`t call me. You never said a word to me.

You know it’s been years….but I am thinking of you. Probably because I am still in love with you. Probably because I am sorry. I blame all the stupid love movies and Dostoyevsky’s of this world and Eliade’s. I blame them all for this. For me.

I thought that if I write to you that letter, we will be together. So simple. I would imagine us being together, how this might feel. I would imagine us eating together, or driving in the car through Italy, or Switzerland. Every time I went there, I thought about you.

I have your voice in my mind, I know how it sounds, how it changed over the years.

I imagine you talking to me, but we don’t talk anymore. Once every year, maybe.

You know, I have secretly been with you together ever since we met. In my mind, we already did all the things people do when they are for real together, in my mind we had fights, we got back together, you would brush my hair in the evening and I would fix your shirt before going out…it was always so simple.
Even though at some point I realized, that we were not together.

It’s like playing music.

With you, it was always like with the music.

Everything was there, unsaid, but we could understand each other better than with words, or gestures, nothing superficial was needed.

That is why I knew that if I would write to you that letter, you would forgive me. And we will be together.

You so often blamed me, and then I knew, that with this letter everything is going to change. I was so emotional about the whole thing, that I couldn’t post the letter on my own, so I had to ask my sister to get to the postal office.

You never answered. Things then became clear. I knew it was over. Whatever you might have thought when you read that letter, I knew – that’s it. That is why I have chosen not to speak to you anymore. That is why I erased your number, and never got back to you. I understood that it was over.

Anyway. My sister told me last month that she never sent you that letter.
She forgot.