The last of knowing Him
N, I don’t know if I will ever send this to you. Maybe this is not even for you. Maybe it is for the version of me that will someday forget who you really were and remember only the pain, or only the love, but not the whole person. So I want to write down what I know. Not about us. About you. I think people often mistake you for someone who wants perfection, even you say that about you, but I don’t think that’s true. I don’t think, at least not anymore, that you spend your life searching for perfect people or perfect relationships. I think you spend your life mourning things that can never be exactly what they once were. There is a difference. The way you described that page of handwriting during our call when you were in thoise stayed with me. The first lines written badly. The later lines becoming beautiful. And yet, when you look at the page from afar, all you see is the mess that came before. For a long time I thought that meant you couldn’t forgi...
