Fragments of the girl he loved, but an entire girl waiting to be loved by you

I can’t write to Ian anymore. I can’t do it. He’s not in my life. He’s my past. He is not my present. He’s not my future.

You are my future.

Whoever you are. I’m not sure yet. Maybe we’ve met already (why haven’t you asked me out yet??) but if not, I can’t wait.

I can’t wait to meet you, in all my glory and awkwardness.

To learn you, all your cracks and missing pieces.

To laugh with you, the quiet giggling and the kind of chuckles that make your belly ache.

To let you see me, the deepest parts of me, the parts meant only for you.

To love you. To let you love me.

I think I wrote to Ian because some part of me was still his, still wrapped in his embrace, still living for him.

I’m living for myself now. For myself and for you.

This is for you.