I don't remember exactly when I wanted to break up, but I remember staying with you longer than I wanted to. My friends used to tell me if I ever dated someone, I wouldn't have the balls to end it--that I would be too afraid of hurting their feelings to do it. I told them they were wrong. Why would I continue to stay with someone I no longer wanted to be with? That just didn't make sense. They were right, of course.

I'm not going to sit here all high and mighty and give some bullshit excuse like, "you were never there for me," or "you didn't care about me," or "you never loved me." If anything, I think you loved me too much.

That was the problem.

You should know that I threw away all of the letters you wrote me but not before reading through them one last time. I had trouble figuring out some of the words, (I've gotten a little rusty at reading your semi-script handwriting) but I was able to get through it. Some of the letters were neater than others--I could tell you took the time to write out a draft first before copying it over on a fresh page to give me. Others were ripped out of a spiral notebook with the jagged edges still attached. Those were shorter ones that you wrote on a whim to tell me small things like, "I like how you curled your hair today," or "good luck on your history test," or "I saw you trip in the hallway, loser." For those, I took the time to carefully tear along the perforation so that the paper looked nice and clean. And when I threw them away, I didn't rip them up. It just felt too mean.

When we met up at the playground near my house in August, I think you knew what was going to happen because you started crying before I even opened my mouth to say, "hi." I know I told you I was breaking up with you because you came with much baggage, but that wasn't true. I mean, maybe it was true in the sense that you had a lot of self-esteem issues. I think you also had depression. Maybe it's because you came from a mother who left you with scars on your lower back--you always said the wrist was too noticeable. I think she loved you too much, too.

The real reason I broke up with you? I would be lying if I said it had nothing to do with the fact that you grabbed my ass and my boobs. I don't know, maybe I'm just being stupid. That's what couples do--they touch each other. I know that now. Hell, I knew it then. But I was only 15, and I wasn't ready. And I told you that. But you didn't listen. You hated yourself for what you did, and insteading of hating you for it, I told you that I loved you, that you weren't a bad boyfriend, and that it was okay. And whether you believed me or not, we tried to forget about it as though you did.

I remember crying a lot that night. I tried drowning myself beneath my covers, but I didn't like how I couldn't breathe, so I poked only my head through the sheets. I remember feeling gross-- like I wanted to step out of my skin and throw it in the hamper to be washed later in the week but forgotten about for now. I couldn't do that. So I had to do the next best thing: to tell you I had to leave you for a half-true reason that I thought would hurt you less. But not before I stayed with you long enough to learn I needed to love me more than I feared what you might do if I left you with nothing but your mom, your guilt, and the shadows on your back.