A Folded Letter Inside Me

THE WEIGHT OF

WRITTEN BY: LU LUCY

To the Word That Weighs Heaviest in My Heart: You,

I know that calling you out in this letter, anonymously, reeks of cowardice. Maybe it is cowardice, or maybe it’s the only way I can still speak to you now that I’ve run out of the courage to look you in the eyes. I hide behind the word “you” the same way I used to hide behind sarcasm and deflection, because naming you feels like crossing a boundary I don’t even know how to measure anymore. Even now, I am unsure of what lines I’m allowed to step over, what words are safe to put down, and which ones would unravel everything.

Those months—God, those endless months where we collapsed entire days into nights together—blur in my memory like a dream I keep trying to replay. We spent so much time tangled in each other’s presence that I lost track of what we were supposed to be. Friends? Lovers? Something in between? Each label felt too small, and yet I still tried to force us into them, desperate for certainty. Every outburst I had, every accusation that spilled from me like venom, was me trying to pin you down into something I could understand. I lost count of how many times I threw words like weapons at you, insisting that your feelings were lies, that you were just telling me what I wanted to hear. And yet, even in the moments I doubted you most, I was clinging to you like a

lifeline.

I forget, sometimes, that it was me, not you, who first drew that line in the sand. It was me who said we should only be friends, like I was daring the universe to prove me wrong. And still, after my storms, you were there. You’d hold me when the tears ran out, kiss me in the dim quiet of night when my guard was down, and in those moments, I would dissolve into the kind of warmth I never thought was meant for me. You had a way of making my own words meaningless. Every “we’re just friends” I declared crumbled the second you brushed your hand against mine or looked at me like I was worth being seen.

But I know myself too well. I know how sharp my tongue can be, how quick I am to build walls out of syllables. Whether the words I threw between us were born of anger or exhaustion, or just the twisted reflex of someone terrified of being hurt, they were still words. Big, bold, messy words that I painted in the air like warnings, trying to scare you away before you could decide to leave on your own. They weren’ t the truth; they were armor. And yet, I think they cut you anyway.

Through you I discovered something I didn’t even believe was real anymore. A feeling that slipped under my skin and rewired the way

I looked at the world. It wasn’t the kind of happiness people post about online, those temporary flashes where you’re smiling for the camera but empty the second the picture is taken. What I felt with you was heavier, more permanent, like it had roots. It was more satisfying than any five-course meal when I’d been starving, more intoxicating than any high I ever chased, more grounding than the false security of a bank account with just enough to breathe easy. You gave me something I didn’t even know I’d been dying for: the reminder that being alive could feel good.

For a while, I let myself sink into that. I laughed without choking on guilt, I slept without nightmares, I looked in the mirror and didn’t flinch at the stranger staring back. I thought maybe, just maybe, the universe had finally decided to let me keep something good.

But then it hit me, the realization itself. I was happy but that very second, I noticed it, the spell cracked because happiness, for me, has always been the thing that slips through my fingers as soon as I recognize it’s there. It’s like catching a firefly: the second you close your hand around it; the light goes out.

So, there I was existing as this difficult creature full of awkwardness, I was given a gift of love and bliss yet instead of resting in it, I panicked. I kept looking over my shoulder, waiting for the

crash. Every kiss became a question mark. Every silence between us, a prophecy of endings. I could feel the happiness in my chest, but I also felt the countdown ticking underneath it, telling me it wouldn’t last. And in that fear, I started killing it myself, tearing apart the very thing I claimed I wanted so desperately: us.

Leave it to me to ruin my own day, the beginning of those months of “us” I felt amazing. I felt not only great about myself, but I also felt hopeful; the anchor that held me down inside my chest was gone.

This wasn’t magic, it was simply from being around you. I went from hermit to beach bum (trips to the beach ALONE, I never go out anywhere alone!) because somehow the vibe and energy you set within me broke me free. I was willing to try to do things that I thought were so corny and not for me, because you had suggested or encouraged me to do it.

Whether you were near or away doing your own thing, I felt alive, which I had not for so long, that when I realized how much I wanted what you were giving me, I grew frightened. I was scared because I knew everything I ever had in my life that made me feel good never stuck around. I had the worst luck with things, or I just wasn’t meant for luck nor was I meant to be loved right by any man in this world.

I ended up spending so much time being scared of losing the happiness I was experiencing, that I did not realize I wasn’t happy anymore. I made myself sad, I became overthinking, too expectant of negative outcomes. I manifested hell here on Earth.

I became angry. It’s like the filter on my live stream which I called “life” changed color, from 4k full color to Noir, then to black and white. The things you did for me, around me and to me, big and small, became an act to me. I stopped taking things for what they were and felt as if everything coming from you was a puzzle or riddle with an objective to read between the lines. It was then that the weight of my words became heavy and yours grew light.

I am a bonafide wrecking ball, I know this. I'm still working on growing some backbone; a lot of these issues start with the inability to be honest with myself which is ironic because I am always the one to push the subject of being disrespected when lied to by anyone. I demand others to be nothing other than honest with me, but let's be real, I've built a reputation on politicking for everyone to "keep it real" while secretly being a master of self-deception.

I wonder if my procrastination spurs from my lack of a backbone?

It has only been a week since I WANTED to start writing this, but I got stuck in a cycle of procrastination and wishful thinking – fantasizing about a letter that would magically fix everything not between us but within me. The truth is, words have power, and I've been poisoning myself with all the ones I've left unspoken. Maybe by confessing the things I couldn't say, or didn't say well enough, I can find some relief.

(The Next Day) Lately, waking up feels like a chore. I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, and the weight of my unspoken words and my seemingly meaningless life crushes me. I'm the architect of this emptiness, and the only one I can blame is myself. I'm writing this in the hope that putting my discombobulated thoughts into words so that it will lift some of the weight off my chest. And no, this isn’t because of you, I have always been this way even as a child.

I remember missing nearly 3 months of 3rd grade because my emotional senses (yes at an early age) would lead me to endless nights of anxiety, worrying about things in my life and things I had no control over.

“What if my parents die?”

“What if a plane crashes on top of my house?”

“What if I never learn how to paint my nails where I can keep the polish only on my nails?”

“What if all the poor people in Somalia are never fed?”

“I broke my classmate's stapler, how am I ever going to pay her back the $2.50?”

Third grade and these were my late-night thoughts preventing sleep from coming and training me to be the insomniac I am today. Then, the following morning I would come to breakfast, look at my cereal at the kitchen table and literally throw up. I threw up EVERYDAY. For over 2 months straight. My mother was mean, I remember her yelling at me that “Maybe you are pregnant!” and “Look at Bill Clinton, he gets sick, and he still goes to work every day!”

Is this why I might be insatiable or insecure when it comes to whether I am really loved by another?

Wow, just skimming this letter a few lines, I already feel like the biggest psycho. No way is it possible for others in this world to think as I do! Dude, they’re psycho! I mean obviously, it takes one to

know one.

With that much being said, maybe you won’t read this, or maybe you won’t be around for me to give or send this to. Maybe I will get a grip on reality and have common sense for at least 10 seconds to decide to just burn these pages and not fold this up and attempt to send it to you.

Maybe this letter is intended for myself and maybe I’ll publish it. Perhaps someone out there will understand the chaos in my head – and attempt an intervention or even a wellness check on my mental health, and then I might be given a mental evaluation and get the happy ending I hope I deserve.

Or maybe this is all just me venting, trying to make sense of things. Either way, I'm taking a chance on the power of words to heal, or at least to clarify the mess I'm in or may have created.

(The Next Day)

SMS Messages – December 10, 2024 You: You down to go get McDonald’s?

Me: Who is this?

You: The Great Muwah Me: Sorry, I don’t know anyone with a form of onomatopoeia as their name.

You: It’s Dee. Me: Dees Nuts? jk Me: I just paid my rent, I’m broke.

You: I’m buying.

Me: Right now right now? I literally have the shower on.

You: What about after your shower?

Me: Ok. Hands are wet. Yes. You: Text me when you’re ready.

Me: Ok, I’m getting dressed now.

You: Ok, let me know when to pull up.

Me: I just threw on whatever, putting on shoes now.

You: Ok.

I shared this conversation here because it feels like a snapshot of what used to be us. It was so small, so ordinary, yet it carries more meaning now than I could have imagined at the time. The banter, the casual rhythm, the ease of it all. Even deciding to grab fast food felt like nothing, but now it sits heavy in memory. That’s what I miss most: the playfulness, the lightness, the way even the smallest moments seemed to matter.

I know you erased our conversations from your phone. You didn’t just delete the messages; you deleted me. It’s been weeks, maybe months,

since I last saw you. The absence has carved itself into every corner of my life. Sometimes my hands move without thinking, and I find myself opening your thread in my inbox, the ones iCloud keeps synced. I don’t scroll through them often, but occasionally I skim. I read a line or two. And every time, I feel the sting.

It isn’t the words that hurt, because you never used words to wound me (that was me). It’s the fact that the words I read they’re frozen. They aren’t new. They aren’t you reaching out. They’re relics, ghosts trapped in my phone, echoes from a timeline that ended too soon.

I sometimes hold my breath while reading them, as if pausing my lungs could pause the ache. But when I exhale, it always lands the same: you’re gone.

And when I close the app, I’m left staring at a screen that never lights up with your name. Even when it rings, it isn’t you. My phone works just fine, but it feels muted from the inside, as if it knows the only sound I want will never come.

I miss those days when things between us felt simple. I always liked you, always thought you were handsome, though I played it cool.

I remember our first meeting better than I admitted. You reminded me

it was at the gas station, and I brushed it off like I had forgotten.

The truth is I remembered every detail.

I remember how I tried to flirt without making it obvious, though I’m sure it was. You had your sister in the car. At least that’s what you told me. I wasn’t sure I believed you, so I labeled you a wannabe Casanova in my head. It was easier to treat you like someone who would break my heart than to let myself imagine otherwise.

The embarrassment hit when I saw you at my ex’s house maybe a few weeks after that encounter at the gas station. That was the moment I forced myself to erase you. You were HIS friend, and that alone made you off-limits. I buried the memory, tried to wipe you out, but somehow, somewhere in the back of my head, you stayed.

You lingered in the background of my life, the neighbor I could always count on. A good neighbor, one who saved me in ways I probably never thanked you for. But I never let myself think of you as more than that. You were the “homeboy and neighbor,” and I told myself that was all you would ever be.

(2 hours later) I can’t seem to hold focus anymore. This letter drags me in and

out like waves, pulling me under and throwing me back. My attention span is gone. Maybe that explains why I don’t bother with small things, like fixing my eyebrows or even changing out of the same clothes.

A friend called earlier, and for once, I answered. Lately I ignore calls, let the phone ring itself out until the sound fades.

Sometimes I’ll send a text, but even that feels like too much. Today I picked up. The first thing he said was that I’ve become a drag. He didn’t mean it cruelly, but I hated how right he was. Because I don’t even feel like a person lately. I feel like an outline, a sketch of someone who used to exist.

Maybe it isn’t just in my head. My hearing has always been bad, but now it feels as if I’m going deaf altogether. The silence doesn’t soothe me. It chokes. The only sound is the faint hum of traffic outside my window, a reminder that the world keeps moving while I remain still.

On top of that depressing idea, there’s the heat. God, the heat.

This summer has been merciless. August always overstays its welcome, but this one feels endless, crueler than the rest. The air presses down like punishment, thick and heavy, as if even the weather has turned against me.

(1 Week Later) December 16, 2024 You: My bad I was charging my phone.

You: You good babe?

Me: Here at the pad You: Want me to pick you up?

Me: No, at least not yet Me: Can’t You: Did you eat?

Me: A little bit but not really.

You: I need to work on being more assertive.

If only these were new messages, I would tell you that you did not have to work on anything, you were very assertive and very considerate.

You were kind. You were loving.

I obviously took for granted the littlest of things I so very much wish I had now. I was loved.

I pushed you away, didn’t I? Apparently, the heaviest of words are the apologies I have locked inside of me. The apologies you deserved.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ve held on to you too tightly in my memory, reshaping our moments until they feel bigger than they really were. But then I think about how real it all was. The sound of your voice at midnight, steady and familiar. The way your hand would find mine without hesitation. The silence we could share without needing to fill it. Those things are too tangible to dismiss.

What I carry with me are the small details—the way your sentences trailed when you were tired, the way your laughter slipped out before you could hold it back, the way you sometimes looked at me like we were both keeping a secret. None of it was dramatic, but it mattered.

It still does.

Of course, doubt creeps in. I replay your words, the ones where you told me I mattered, and then I question if I heard them the way you meant them. Were you being kind, or careful? Did I believe more than was there? But if it wasn’t real, why does it still press so heavy on me now? Why does your name still come to mind before I even realize I’m thinking of you?

I think about the silence more than the ending. Endings at least have clarity. Silence doesn’t. It spread slowly, until one day I

realized your voice had slipped out of my days, and I didn’t know when it happened. From the outside, it looks like nothing: a phone that doesn’t light up, conversations that stop. But to me, it’s a shift I still feel in my bones, the absence of something I once counted on without question.

Time keeps moving, but I still measure it against you. I don’t mean in some obsessive way—I mean in the subtle ways that grief teaches you to count. Weeks, months, seasons. The ache softens, then flares again. Some mornings I wake up steady, and some mornings I feel the shape of what’s missing before I’ve even opened my eyes.

This letter isn’t about begging or clinging. It’s not an attempt to rewrite what’s already over. It’s simply me refusing to erase what mattered. Because you did matter. Even if you’ve forgotten the details, even if you’ve tucked me into a drawer you’ll never open again, I can’t pretend it didn’t change me.

What I want you to know, even if you never read this, is that through you, I found a piece of myself I thought didn’t exist. You reminded me that connection could feel natural, not forced. That joy could show up in something as ordinary as grabbing fast food or sharing

silence. And for that, I’ll always be grateful.

A few weeks ago, you walked past my house, my bedroom window with the ex I always said you were not over. The reason I was a “rebound” ... or did I manifest all that has happened, all that hurts me today? Did I push and push and make this reality happen? It doesn’t matter now I guess, I have no right to say things or ask questions, I wanted, no I demanded that we “stay friends”. Stupid me. I lied.

I don’t know what you remember when you think of me, or if you think of me at all. But I hope, if you do, it’s not just the worst parts like the times I let fear speak too loudly, the times I pushed you away before you had the chance to leave. I hope you also remember the lightness, the laughter, the ways we managed to find comfort in each other. Because I do. And no matter how much time passes, I think I always will.