Chapter Text
Dear Brendon,
I’m unsure as to why I’m writing to you. Well, I have a few ideas. Maybe you do, too. But, regardless, I find the uncertainty less exposing. I don’t like exposure any more; I’m a bit more self-preserved than I used to be.
I was travelling through Seattle the other day and went to the Tractor Tavern. I won’t waste time explaining how I landed myself in there after such a long time, but I did. I entered alone and exited with some pretty girl draped around my right shoulder, and a rugged yet undeniably attractive guy around my left.
It was intense before I left, though. The music was blasting so loudly that the vocals were barely audible; it was just a loud, throbbing beat throughout my body. I ordered a few drinks. A few meaning around seven pints of Broadway Light, possibly five or more heavy liquors, far too many shots, and some other mixtures of unhealthy fluids that made me feel like absolute crap the next morning.
I smoked more than enough pot for it to make the whites of my eyes an offensive colour of red, and took a few pills that looked overly attractive in yellows, pinks and a green that made my head hurt (I swear it was the brightness of the tablet and not the shocking amount of alcohol in my bloodstream).
It’s your fault. It’s your fault that instead of having a couple of drinks and heading to the hotel, I drowned myself in toxicities, heavy music, sex that was as morbid as the time we invited Haley to fuck in Spencer’s shower (their breakup still makes me wince) and, embarrassingly, tears.
I don’t hate you, surprisingly. I really should – I really could, but I don’t really have the malice in me. Fuck, Bren, what I’m about to say is going to be alien to you, but; I miss you.
This isn’t romantic or pretty, or even melodramatic, I just wish we could sit in the same room and exist together. Things couldn’t ever be the same, I know, I know, but that isn’t… I guess, it isn’t a reason to never try again. Don’t click this email off your screen right now. Do not. Please.
It was rough, it was messy, it was painful; it was sweat, fucking in dimly-lit clubs, breaking down at 3AM in hotel lobbies, and playing to crowds who think they know you, but they don’t, they fucking don’t. But it was so beautiful, Brendon. Your voice sang my secrets and it was almost terrifying when I realised how perfect it was. Me and you, we were something explosive.
When I think of you, I don’t know whether to smile or scream. You fucked me up and that is beautiful, in a dangerous way. It was beautiful when your lips graced mine and it was still beautiful when you told me to leave. Does that make me a masochist, B? Because you hurt me over and over and over and I think it would’ve killed a lesser man, but I was (am) so addicted to you.
Dumb enough to care too much and young enough to believe in love, I treated every day with you like it was a gift from ‘God’; it wasn’t. Because you’ve gone on to find better things and you seemingly don’t give a fuck about anyone or anything you left behind.
It’s okay though, Bren. I just wanted you to know that I’ll come running whenever you click your heels. I always have, always will. You probably stopped reading a while ago, and that’s fine, I guess. Just don’t… don’t forget us. Don’t leave us in the past.
- Moon