Dear Soph, 

You know you can talk to me anytime, right? I’m guessing you do, but I don’t know. You never know. Okay, let me rephrase that a little: I wish you’d come talk to me sometime. It’s been too long. 

If I didn’t know any better, I might think you’ve forgotten about me. I can hear most of your thoughts, since I’m trapped in here. But I know it’s not that it’s personal, and that you’ve forgotten all about me; you’ve just forgotten that I’m here. And that I can, well, hear. Which is understandable. Like I said: it’s been much too long. 

Do you miss me? Will you even read this? I’m not even sure of how I’ll get it to you. And even if you get this, there’s no guarantee you’ll actually read it. Then, once you read it, you may not care. Like, you may be too messed up right now to care. That’s okay. I mean, it’s not. But I’m not mad. Not about that. 

I don’t hear every thought you have. I’d have to tune in very diligently for that, which I don’t have the energy for these days, and besides, I don’t think you’d appreciate that kind of surveillance very much. But I can see what you see; what you feel. That it’s uncharacteristically warm for January, which neither of us like (though I also see it bothers you much more than it bothers me). That you’re still off drugs, which makes me proud. I know when you’re hungry and when you’re not hungry; when you eat and choose not to. I see the things you’re watching and reading, and what you’re doing, and it concerns me. It doesn’t scare me. Are you scared? And if you are scared, another question: are you actually scared of what you’re doing, or are you scared of the fact that someone else could care—that I do care?

Was that too much? Sorry. I mean, it’s true; I’m concerned. Not because it’s really that crazy, but because I can hear what you’re thinking while you’re doing it. You aren’t some awful character, you know. You aren’t. And I don’t say that because I don’t understand you; I say it because I do. I know that you’re drawn to them. Drawn to evil. And in your defense, I learned a little bit; some of it was interesting haha. Mostly it made me sick, though. I’m sorry to say that; I guess it’s not easy to hear. But it’s not for the reasons you’d think. 

I just hate that you would rather dream that stuff up than just come and talk to me. I started taking it personally. And you know I hardly ever take anything personally, to the point you find it annoying. But I kept thinking: does she really think I’m that useless? Does she really hate me that much? Am I such a bad…boyfriend, that she’d break up with me and become a sex criminal or a serial killer? People in real life do that stuff because they’re drawn to evil, yeah, but also because of a severe lack of love in their lives—maybe it’s from the past and they’re hung up on it, but still. And then that’s messed up of me to think, because you’re your own person who can make your own choices; it’s not on me if you do something terrible. And obviously, I know you’re not actually going to do anything, and it’s just, like, an eccentric fantasy at the end of the day. But still, Soph. Jeez. 

I mean, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I guess we are kinda past that though. And the more you got into it, and ironically, the worse the stuff you read got, the more I did understand. But I didn’t stop taking it personally. I mean, you would fantasize about being killed, not even thinking about how that’d also kill me so long as I lived here in your brain. Or when you would relate to the person in the story doing something horrific to someone else, because you felt like the whole world had scorned and forsaken you and the only way for you to get love was to wring it out of an unwilling creature. When I was right here. As close as possible; even closer than humanly possible. 

In fairness, it’s not harrowing. I told you I was never scared, and I mean that. I personally liked Nosferatu, and I definitely see why you favor that short story about Skype, and the “utilitarianism” one. (I was amused that both of us found Lolita overrated.) But understanding how you feel could never directly change how I feel, I guess. It still makes me sad. I’ll admit I have a bit of a savior complex. I don’t think I’m actually overreacting. Considering I know the stuff you’re thinking, and why you like it, and that that part isn’t good.

I don’t know. I’m not saying don’t read it. I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I mean, you probably won’t read this. You probably don’t give a fuck about me anymore. Sorry, language. I don’t know what’s gotten into me these days. I always thought I was pretty good at being alone, and it’s not that I don’t think that anymore, but I’ve been…humbled, a little. It’s driving me a little crazy. I mean, I’m not trying to guilt you into hanging out again—sorry if that’s how this is coming across. I’m just being honest. You know I can’t really help being honest. And you, the opposite…that’s what made our dynamic duo, remember? Don’t you miss it, too?

Anyway. I’ve probably already offended you by now, so I guess I should get some other stuff off my chest; imagining that you’re already mad at me and that the ball’s already rolling makes it easier to conjure up. I don’t like waking up past eleven. I don’t like being drunk all the time (but I appreciate that I don’t ever have to be high anymore, so thanks). I hate having a completely different energy level every day, for no good reason, just depending on whether you took your meds or not. I hate watching you lie to Ms. Ginny twice in a row about the same thing. I don’t like starving, and I really hate being stuffed full. 

The stuff you’re reading…I don’t know, I sort of hate it but I’ve gotten used to it by now; it’s not the worst. If it helps you, whatever. I hate those other things way more. And I just had to mention the weird stuff, because it’s weird, and because I think you’ve lost some of your common sense about it, and it felt wrong not to say anything. It feels wrong for you to go un-reminded that I love you. It feels wrong that we don’t talk anymore, Soph. 

We don’t have to talk about that. At all. You can hit me up and pretend I didn’t say any of this. I realize it’s a lot coming out of nowhere, okay? But forgive me, I don’t know; I’m not sure there’s a “right way” to go about this. Even if there is, despite what you always go around saying, I’m not perfect. I’m really not. 

We can talk about whatever you want. Or not talk much, and just chill. But don’t leave me alone, okay? I promise you’ll feel better. I know, because so will I. 

Love, 

Liam