Letter to you

All my life I’ve been trying to be honest. In part, because I really can’t stand people who don’t tell the truth just because they are so damn scared of the reaction of their family and friends. And that’s the reason why I’m so pissed off right now. Because I haven’t been sincere with you in a very long time. 

To start with, all the times that we meet up to have some coffee in that café next to the beach, I didn’t tell you I don’t like coffee or tea or anything like that. And I didn’t because the first time we got there you told me I was gonna love the coffee in that place. And I loved it in a way, for you asked it to the waitress so gently, so lovely... And that’s what I loved that day, the way you always talk to people, the way you smiled when the waitress asked you if you wanted some sugar with the latte, just because you didn’t know if I wanted sugar. So I kept drinking coffee in that place even though I really hate it.

But I wouldn’t regret not having been honest with you for this. There are some other reasons. Like that time you went shopping the day before we were going to see each other, and you waited for me to tell you what a wonderful dress you were wearing that day. But I never told you. I liked the way you tried to make me notice, moving your hands towards the new dress to make me look at you. And then, at the end of the day, I love it when you yelled because I didn’t notice. What I didn’t tell you either is that I secretly stared at you when you were talking or eating your ice-cream, that I thought you were the most beautiful woman with that dress...

I hate it when people can’t be honest. And that’s the reason I am writing this letter to you, because I don’t want you to hate me ever. Now I've been here for six months and every single time you came over to see me, to check how I was doing, I’ve wanted to tell you all this, to let you know how important you are to me. But I’ve been afraid. Letting you know all this scares the hell out of me, because I don’t want you to stop visiting me. So, I guess next time you bring me flowers, I’ll give it to you. The only thing that I’ll regret then is telling you so in my pajamas...

Love you,

A.