An open letter to the one who couldn’t love me back:

I don’t blame you. I understand now why you couldn’t—it took me years to learn how to love myself. And I’m still learning to love myself. And I’m writing this not to show what you’ve lost (like most bitter people do; this is not a Katy Perry song) or to self-deprecate so that I may find support from pity. No. I’m writing this because I can never have the courage to say these things to you in person. I’m writing this because the truth is you have greatly affected me.
In all honesty, you have been a constant ‘hugot’ to most of materials that I’ve written. How you never looked back at me the way I looked at you. How tragic my unrequited love for you is. In short, you were Beatrice as I was Dante. They’re maybe not Pablo Neruda or another great poet’s pieces, but to me, they’re beautiful just the same. You’re still one of the reasons why I write.
It was hard to be alone on a supposed to be two-way street. But like I said, I don’t blame you. I was hyperaware whenever you’re around. I couldn’t talk to you unless it’s really important. Let alone make an eye contact. I was so self-conscious that I forgot the most important thing: to just be myself. To not over think things. Over time, I just learned that it would be best, not only to me but to you and also to everyone around us, to just be myself and to stop making things awkward. 
Aside from having loved you, I also looked up to you. You are that person who’s strong and will always be there for their family and friends. I looked up to you because back then, you excelled in this area and I didn’t. I love it now and it will always remind me of you. I looked up to you because from what I know of you, you’re a genuine person. 
I’m serious when I say I’m really thankful that I get to love you even if you didn’t—couldn’t love me back. And those after years, I’ve finally moved forward. And my only wish is that not for you to love me back but to genuinely be happy. And that you deserve to find your own Simone. 


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