I am not certain if you recall, but I remember a time when you called me “baby” in your low hum of a morning voice. A time when you promised me that “forever” was a word not far from our vocabulary. You fell in love with a writer, and I warned you about this. I romanticize my heartbreaks, and my sadness on account of your leaving. I am not writing this letter in order to blame you for what happened, because I certainly would not have handled me very well either, but perhaps you once saw a sparkle in my insanity, a spark in my electricity that you believed you could seek out and explode with, causing one electric current we could both swim together. I am sorry for how things ended, though I would not change a thing. You taught me how to fall for someone, how to break down every cell in my body for another person’s happiness, how to prove love everyday, how to take everything personally, how to get hurt, and most importantly, how to heal. So I thank you for that. I am writing you this at 1:00 pm, and I’m sitting in the well-lit kitchen drinking the iced tea you used to love, trapped inside of the body which you once shared those same feelings for. I understand that our one-year anniversary of not speaking is arising and you have probably forgotten how it tastes to speak my name, but I felt it only proper to reach out. So, whenever it is you read this letter, know you are probably on my mind.