An open letter to You, who will never read it

Dear You, who will never read it, 

Tonight I sat outside my front door and drank some hot cocoa. I had a perfect view of one star. Trees and buildings and awnings framed that one white freckle on the night sky. It is inevitable when I stare into the sky, that I think of others who might be looking up at the same sky. I thought of my friends who I left behind, and who have left me behind. But mostly I was thinking about you. It always agonizes me; what might have been. Sometimes when I think about you, it’s like a bowling ball to the stomach. It knocks the wind out of me. Sometimes, like tonight, when I thought about you, I chuckled. There’s so much that I didn’t know, and still don’t know that it amuses me how hung up I am over something that never happened. Maybe my frustration is that it never had the chance to happen. The dominoes didn’t fall that way. And that’s probably okay. The past can never fully inform the future. But the infinite stream of might-have-beens that make up history help me imagine what might be. And maybe what might be is me drinking hot cocoa looking up at that same star many months or years from now, with you by my side. 

Love, 

Aaron