Dear Evan,

I doubt you remember this, but the day I left your apartment, you asked, "I wonder if you just like me because I'm nice to you."

All I did in response was let my eyes wander from yours to the floor, the window, the wall and back again, all unfocused. Just like my head was. I looked at your face and into your eyes and realised that this was the first time I ever really did such, and I noticed that your eyes are actually really brown instead of some recessive white trait, like hazel or grey. And that your face isn't totally symmetric.

But even with all that intent staring, nothing rose out of me. No red cartoon hearts were floating from my eyes to yours. I couldn't answer, and if I did I wasn't sure. After I left, I began to wonder, dumbfounded that I couldn't come up with an answer, even for myself.

I wasn't sure if what I felt for you was genuine, or if it was based off more superficial feelings of comfort and the natural attachment that grows with the consistency of a mere person's presence.

Now, more than a month later, I can finally answer your question.

I liked you. Like, you for you, not just for the nice warm shell of a body walking, talking, laying next to mine, but for all the content inside of that shell. It wasn't just because you were nice. I mean you weren't that nice. If you were really nice you would've brought me cookies and ice cream everyday all day. Jk, but you know what I mean.

So, unfortunately, I can't say I wrote this because I'm buzzed or drunk and I don't really have any excuse other than being in one of those weird introspective moods when you evaluate the people that've passed through your life—minor, major, what have you.

I just wanted you to know. Maybe compelled is a better word. Because I don't want to contact you and this email violates every breakup rule out there, but I felt compelled enough to write this despite all of that. And possibly because it's also part of my whole vulnerability experimenting thing.

So, I'm half sorry for subjecting you to more word vomit and my own self-realisation, whether welcome or unwelcome, as per usual. That much hasn't changed haha. Maybe I'm selfish in that respect, but I'm also half not sorry because I didn't need that text from you on your birthday, whatever the hell that meant anyway.

So, in a really convoluted way and totally irrelevant now, that's my final answer.

From the girl who always feels too much, to the boy who can't feel enough.