I refresh my inbox around a hundred times a day.
I know that you are working twenty hour days and have no time to sleep let alone anything else and yet I can’t stop myself hoping. I feel like blocking all of my emails from Facebook because I get a false sense of hope and excitement, only to be disappointed.
All these women keep on commenting on your wall and I know you have slept with at least a couple of them, probably more. Then I remind myself that the comments are all complaining that you didn’t come and say goodbye to them before you left and you came and said a very special goodbye to me, twice.
There is so much to keep me busy here, I should be doing one of my four essays tonight and instead I’m writing this to you. Well, indirectly to you because I’m not going to send it. I wouldn’t want to seem crazy or obsessive or anything. I do wish you would reply to my letter, then I wouldn’t feel quite so unsure. I know this is ridiculous. I know I am being ridiculous. Yet somehow in a strange way I enjoy the ridiculousness, I enjoy imagining where you are and what you are doing. There is so much I want to tell you, so much that has been going on.
For now I’ll just imagine your adventures, write to you
and send the letters floating off into the air.
