They say a strange feeling overcomes you right when you're about to leave a certain place, because you know that a part of you is going to be left behind too. In three days I'll be flying again. The suitcases have already been brought out but I still can't bring myself to pack. My room still looks like a storm has recently passed through it and I have a book, a letter, a few journal entries, calls, and a poem overdue. Everything done at the last minute -- I'm only going to say good-bye right when I have to say it. 

I'm not sure of how I feel about leaving again, especially now that I've got something to leave and something to come back to. I fear that in two months, when I welcome myself home, the only thing waiting for me at the doorstep is news that something, again, has changed. Summer is ending soon.

--

Dear ( ), 

     The last real, tangible letter I've written for you dates back to two years ago and it's been weeks since I've felt that I should write you another one. But I can't. I don't do that anymore. I've only written two proper letters to you in total, the first one was procured because there were so many things I wanted to say to you but couldn't, the second was because there were so many things I still wanted to say to you but couldn't anymore. 

It's different now. 

Time has silenced a part of me. I think of saying something sweet but change my mind mid-sentence, "I love you" sounds more and more trite each time I hear the both of us say it. Words are not always enough. It's an enormous effort not to pound on Backspace and Delete every so often. I choke on my words and keep reminding myself to be honest. Here, let me try again. 

Sometimes you make me want to be a better person, and I envy the relationship you have with your mother. And because of that, I make sure to wrap my arms around mine every night when I go to bed, right before or after I pray to the God I've started praying to again. You make me want to be better and that's how you've always made me feel, even then. Recently I was ruminating on how you've found another way around my walls and defenses just so you can sneak up on me, only to realize that there has never been a need to. There's a crack on the window, a small gap for you there. I hate you for that and for being the one who leaves. I love you for everything else. 

I don't know how to tell you that I still can't get rid of the feeling of not being enough, like I'm scrubbing and scrubbing on white linen sheets with an angry red stain that not even the strongest detergent can wash. It latched itself onto me and grew and grew and grew. (I don't know how to be the girl you love.)

How much longer are we supposed to say I'm sorry / I love you / I miss you / We can't? 

Three days left.