Dear Vanessa

Why do we have to let go?

Jillian Spiridon

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Photo by Malcoln Oliveira via Pexels

Dear Vanessa,

It’s been ten years, but I still remember that rose tattoo of yours. It peeked out from your shoes, a hint of red at your ankle as if someone had pressed a painted lipstick smile there. You would tug at your socks and give an embarrassed grin whenever someone noticed it. I never said a word — though I loved your bashful looks — but I always wished I could press my fingertips to that flushed skin of yours in the hope that I might make your heart race.

But I never had a goddamn chance.

You were already someone else’s by the time I met you. Worse, I guess, was that you were his — because God knew I couldn’t compete with a guy like Nate. When we were at the bar, he would tug at your hand and lace your fingers in his, and I’d have to look away and sip at my beer while I wondered just how the stars always aligned out of my favor every single time.

Before I met you, there was Emery. She liked loud music, the kind where she’d whip her head up and down to the beat as her blonde hair swept around her in a crashing wave. I thought she’d be the one because we both hung around the same places and danced with the same vices. We always exchanged smiles when we saw each other. I thought that was enough to make love blossom back then. But soon enough I saw her at all the same…

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