I’ve spent years going on meaningless dates with disinterested people. It wasn’t until I met you that I really thought I might have found someone worthwhile. You are smart. And funny. And SO handsome. And well-adjusted. I was excited about you. You gave me butterflies like I hadn’t felt in a very long time. But at the time I met you, I was a terrible mess- coming off both a break-up (from a relationship I got into so I didn’t have to be alone and grieving) and my dad’s death. I drank too much. I was nervous and scared and so afraid of doing something that would make you not like me, that I fucked things up worse than I could have ever imagined. I showed you the most visceral, vulnerable, raw side of myself that, really, I didn’t even fully know existed. I don’t blame you for rejecting that or being scared by it. I don’t blame you for leaving. But know, it was never just about sex. Sex was what happened because I didn’t know how else to show you how much I liked you. And then I spectacularly ruined everything anyway. I’ve said this so many times, but what happened had an enormous impact on the way I think about things and on the way I function. I’m not kidding when I say that it completely changed my life. I can’t imagine how crazy that sounds to someone who doesn’t really know me or anything about me, but it’s the truth. And, of course, what happened in itself wasn’t the arbiter of my changing things, but a catalyst; one of those rare, pivotal moments you can actually look back on and say, ‘hey, look, that’s when I decided to do things differently.’ You had a profound effect and for that I’m endlessly grateful. I wish my six months of apologies, however misguided a form they may have sometimes taken, would be enough for you to speak to me again. Ignoring me is maybe the most apt punishment, but haven’t I had enough?