I hope Scotland’s treating you well. I hope you’ve kept your strength. I hope that whomever you’re with, he’s treating you better than I ever did, could have.

It’s been four years, two cities, two degrees, and two life times ago now. For the longest time, you were – on a stubbornly subconscious level – the bar with which those who immediately followed you had been measured. It was unfair, and irrational, and dishonest, but it was the truest thing I’ve never admitted. If this ever reaches you, I fully expect you to die a little bit from embarrassment.

We were both so terrible with the follow through. I don’t think we could have ended any other way, even played a million times across a million universes. Our chemistry was always meant to explode and dissolve until there was nothing left to hold.

But I should make two things clear:

First, I loved you more purely, effortlessly, unambiguously than anyone before or since.

Secondly, I tried that canned crab meat that you were so strangely fond of: it is still fucking awful.

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