I may have forgotten You, or maybe I have just met You. You were Me, once, and I think maybe I were You, too, but that is a thing only past tenses understand. But I have something to say to You, so You better listen.
I am a stranger to You. I had not been a stranger for long, but You and I have drifted apart. You cannot understand MeI prevent You from understanding Me. It is a way to protect Myself from You, away from the prying eyes where even I am starting to understand Me a little less.
But less about Me, and more about You.
You and I must've been the same person, once. There was some point in time where You and I were We. Us. Me. Something like that. There was a time, not too long ago, where We laughed in synchronization and said the same things, agreed in unison and were two halves of a wholenot even. We were the whole, You and I. There was no distinction. We were that kind of We.
But now, You cannot look in the mirror and be proud of Yourself. You cannot focus on Your achievements, and You cannot understand how anybody is grateful to You, how anybody can seriously look at You with any shred of humble admiration. You cannot understand Your own failures, and You understand Your successes even less. Me, I am a bystander that watches You smile, laugh, and react to the things that make You react, and then We both wonder if I am laughing, too.
We are strangers now, You and I. You sneer at what I would never have scorned, if I'd had any say in it. You laugh at things I would never have laughed at, refuse what I truly want, and You say things that I would never have saidbe it from fear or from dignity or from childish grace, We would never have said those things, but You say them now without a thought. You can hate when I could never think of hating; You can love when I don't want to give the love.
You do things that I cringe at; I think things that make You terrified.
You are not secure. You always look to Me, and merely with the act of looking, instead of knowing, You are pushing Me away. We were "We", once, and the more You think of Us as You and I, the less We are.
We were broken together. You shook Your head, decided to move on, yet I am left here looking at the shards You ignore. Maybe You think I am silly, even though You no longer trust your judgement, and I trust Mine even less. I am Your mess, and You are Mine. We can still be the whole, the We, but You have not considered that option yet, even though I am silently begging for it. We are no longer connected, and I watch You with anxious eyes as You keep asking me useless questions.
You cannot look in the mirror and recognize Yourself, because You and I are no longer quite the same.
You parade in the daylight and let the others see. You are what they think is Me.
But I am speaking to You, now, and You better listen.
I miss You. I miss Us. I miss the days when We thought together, when We never fought in the quiet, cobweb dungeon of Our minds, when we were simply "I", and without any "buts". I miss the days when I didn't think of you as You, when I didn't think of us as Us, and when We didn't even exist; it was only menot Me, but me--that was out here, that functioned as a whole.
Long ago, You and I were not strangers. You and I were Me, reacting and living and whole and never as self-deprecating as You and I are now. We both know that there is no such thing as We. There is no You, no I. There is only Me, left alone in the darkness, missing my two crucial halves that now are impossible strangers to one another.
So I have spoken to You. You and I need to reconnect. You and I need to learn how to be Me again. You and I need to stop doing what the other says is wrong, and stop thinking things that frightens the other the most. You need to stop worrying about what the others think of Me. I need to stop thinking about what used to be Me, and pining for it, even with its fatal flaws. You and I need to be whole, need to heal and pick up the shards and learn to move on. Whichever one of Us needs to learn what, We will figure it out when We get there.
One day, You will be able to recognize Yourself at last, staring into polished glass. You will be able to truly smile, and not smile that awful, hollow thing that usually plasters itself on Your face. You will be able to accept Your defeats, accept Your victories, and maybe I will be able to do the same. You will no longer feel empty when someone asks You: "Who are You?", and I will no longer ask myself "Who am I?" By then, We will know, and We will smile together.
You will be at peace, and so will I. You and I will be me again, some day. We need to start now.
Maybe then I will write You a letter, again, and it will no longer be addressed to a stranger. It will only be addressed to me.