When we met, I was 15, going on 16. Teenage still, despite my insistance to be seen otherwise, and incredibly juvenile in many ways.
When we met, you were 13, going on 14. Only just teenage then, incredibly self-conscious and easily attached to me for showing interest in you.
In retrospect, we were both a perfect pair and the worst couple imaginable. Which is something many people can say when they look back at a previous serious partner.
And what a pair we made:
The self-conscious young lady who got wrapped up in their beau far too quickly and far too well to truly live for herself at the time, all because of simple compliments which while truthful and from the heart should not have caused such a pleasant high.
And the self-doubting young man, so used to being told that they weren't good enough that they were too eager to experience love to try to make it so things didn't get so heated so quickly.
We didn't do one another favours over the few years we were a couple:
You threatened suicide if I left you on more than one occasion when your hormones overtook reason, even if I hadn't made any mention of actually leaving you.
I made brash statements in anger which set off your waterworks; statements said in an angry five seconds because I was stressed out which took a minimum of five hours to properly apologise for in words, as well as some deeds.
You hated when I spent time away from you, hated when I was with you but distracted, and hated when I was sad and I couldn't let you make me feel better for whatever reason.
And I... I was a total heel and hooked up with another woman, because they were jealous of someone a few years their junior all because I was off the market.
Still, we dealt with each roadblock along the way, until I said something out of stress and fear and pain that I didn't mean, something I never even meant to let you hear; and that drove you away. For a time.
I dealt with things, I got better. And when we next spoke to one another, we reconnected nearly instantly. Like two magnetics, we quickly attracted the other and became inseperable. Until I realised that my problems were encroaching on my psyche again, and that yours were starting to rear their ugly head again. And so I ended it, before I could truly hurt you, promising to come back when I was fully okay.
And then you weren't around, despite saying that you would wait for me. I felt betrayed and hurt, but I understood:
You weren't a possession or a plaything. You weren't a slave or anything remotely to those things. You were a young woman, and if I kept letting you go then you were going to try to find happiness with someone else.
That last part? Well... that was three years and ten months ago now.
You'll be pleased to know, if you ever find this, that I managed to settle most of my problems for good, and the quasi-gentleman you fell in love with is what I mostly salvaged from the wreckage of my past self.
I've been clean of my medication, and for the most part my mental health issues, for about as long, although mostly because I wanted to push through for us, and then for me, as opposed to because you weren't around.
I'm not exactly happy, not truly, but I have my way in life. I've settled into a comfortable routine and I've made some friends, both new and made better friends of old ones, in the time being, though I am still a grumpy gills for long periods of time on occasion.
Ultimately, this is my goodbye to our relationship, and unless you say otherwise, to you. I do you no favours, nor myself any, by torturing myself with my memories and older emotions again and again and again, even if they are of you.
Letting go... it hurts, hurts deep inside me in ways that I cannot explain. But it's a good hurt - I need to let go so I can love again, even if it is you again. I do you a disservice to use old thoughts and feelings to justify how I act with and around you, even if we have a history.
I love you. You held my heart, you caught my soul. Though they are mine again, a small part will belong to you always. Goodbye.