Mrs. ME

Letters I never sent

Episode Four: Mrs. Me

Every piece I’ve written before had a pattern - either a heartbreak soaked in regret or a fantasy that never stood a chance. But this one feels different. It’s not a fairy tale, not a tragedy. It’s a disruption. A fracture. A story carved by someone who defied every line I thought was written for me.

This is for someone I should have told the truth to years ago. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Her eyes - beautiful, disarming, mercilessly honest - stripped me of every word. So I hid. Now it’s only after time has passed, after solitude has emptied me, after the campus corridors have gone quiet, that I can finally whisper the confession I owed you.

Our first meeting is blurry, tucked somewhere deep in my mind, but even my bad memory couldn’t erase it. It all started with a tweet I believe. I had made one of my usual loud posts about MUK back in vacation, and you, casually but fatefully, slid into my DMs. A simple conversation – short, maybe even ordinary – yet it got me ridiculously excited. I didn’t even know you yet, not really, but something about it felt like a thread had been pulled. Like maybe we were meant to be, even if just in whispers and short-lived moments.

And when we finally met? I froze. Not because you were intimidating in the obvious way – no. You were gentle, warm, the kind of person whose presence calmed the air. But I was scared. Scared of you. Or maybe scared for you. Or maybe just scared of myself. I don’t really know which version of the fear won that day, only that it was overwhelming.

I was coming off the back of pure loneliness and distrust. The previous year had wrecked me beyond recognition, stripping me of every defense until I was left raw and vibrating with inadequacy. I was not ready to get close to anyone again. The idea of building a new trust felt like asking a ghost to carry a heavy weight – it would simply pass through, collapsing everything.

But there we were, under the same roof, every single day, sitting metres apart, looking at each other like strangers who knew a secret. It was a kind of an emotional torture. We had already talked – you had crossed the invisible line – and now the pressure of presence was too much.

I still beat myself up somedays, regretting why I didn’t just meet your open hand with my sweaty palms. Why I didn’t treat you with the simple, deserved kindness when you first said Hi. Instead, I did the silly, complicated, destructive things that made you unhappy, the stupid moves I thought would protect me but instead pushed you away.

But what if I told you that I did all that for attention – your attention. All the times I ignored your gaze, all those moments I took left when you took right, that one time I loudly campaigned for your opponent, just to see the trace of confusion and hurt cross your face – every one of those stunts was me begging in the loudest silence I knew.

It sounds insane, right? I know. Like a child throwing a tantrum in a supermarket aisle, begging to just be noticed.

Fact is, I wanted your presence next to me every minute, every second, all the time, but I was too scared to admit it. Admitting need is the single most vulnerable act a man like me can perform. It exposes the throat. So, I resorted to pride. I resorted to being a complete asshole to you. It was a pathetic, calculated risk: If I make myself terrible, and you still stay, then maybe, just maybe, I am worthy of love.

It was like I made you a beggar, asking for our continued connection, for our friendship, for us. Something I should have been the one to do – I should have been the one doing the begging, the pursuing, the valuing. Instead, I made your beautiful heart prove its worth against my worst behavior.

So yes, I still beat myself up for that.

But you? You were an angel. You saw right through me. Through my stupid pride, through my hard-guy stance, my transparent attempts to push you away. You saw me for who I was – a deeply damaged, frightened human – not what I thought I was – a cool, detached donkey. And instead of leaving, you stayed. You forgave and still wanted to be my friend. You didn't just forgive my actions; you forgave the intention behind them. That’s a heart of gold, babe. That’s love.

I still believe it was because we were alike as hell. You denied that we ever fought the same demons, always so firm in your denial, but trust me, we were literally the same. From A-Z. That’s why we clicked so violently. We were two puzzle pieces that, when held together, didn't make a whole, but made a mirror. When I looked at you, I saw all the soft, caring, exciting parts of myself I had spent years trying to kill. And because you wore those parts so honestly, I had to let mine live again.

It may have taken my anxious, guarded heart some time to fully appreciate what was happening to me, but I’m glad I realized it before it was too late. I had been governed by my distrust of people and the certainty that they would all leave, but you? You slid past my defenses, straight into my heart, before I even noticed the breach. You became a part of me, like a song that sneaks into your head until you catch yourself humming it at random.

I never let anyone too close. But I did for you. Because if I were ever to be hurt by another human again, I’d want it to be you. That was my declaration of trust. It meant your betrayal would be worth the beautiful, terrifying time we spent together.

I grew so fond of you that it scared me. So fond that I wanted you only and only for myself. I think I hated your friends – everyone you ever shared laughter with that wasn’t me. I still don’t like them, if I’m being honest. Not because they weren’t good people, but because I envied every laugh you shared with them.

My flaw wasn't love; it was scarcity. I operated from the belief that there was only a finite amount of good energy, of laughter, of connection, and that if you shared it with others, it meant less for me. I wanted to be the only one who made you smile, the only person you talked to when excited, and I wanted to be the only ear you could vent to when life was heavy.

I knew I couldn’t make the world bend that way, so I sat back and hate-watched every joke, every moment you had with them, while treasuring every glance you threw my way, every smile I gave you, every second we were close.

Do you remember that time you said you’d never call me Doroo because that’s what everyone else called me? I laughed, thought you were joking. But you weren’t. You stuck with “Derick.” You made “Derick” sound like a nickname, like a secret, just because of how you held on to it. I started introducing myself by my first name, because of the unwavering respect you placed on those syllables. That’s the power you had over me: you loved me by demanding a better version of my own name. You gave me a self-respect I didn't know I'd misplaced.

To say I miss campus would be a lie that rings hollow; to say that I don’t would also be a lie that denies the reality of our shared time. The last two years? They were my best. And I believe it was because we were closer. We spent more time together, held deeper conversations, understood each other better. So yes, I don’t miss CEDAT, or the dusty Livingstone hall, or the miserable assignments, but I miss us. Every single day.

I miss the specific rituals that now exist only as silent ghosts in my memory:

I miss the quiet closeness of sitting shoulder-to-shoulder during discussions, and how group work always meant we were automatically paired.

I miss your music taste - honestly terrible, but unforgettable - because the way you vibed to every beat made me love it anyway.

I miss the church sessions you dragged me into, moments that unexpectedly became some of the best experiences of my life.

I miss the way you’d wake from a nap and immediately ask if you’d snored. I’d deny it, of course, until you playfully forced me to admit - just a little - that you had because you thought it unsexy.

This is a letter I should have sent back then, but I wasn’t brave enough. Or maybe I wasn’t ready. I thought you being close to me was pity, dumb as that sounds now. Even when you showed me kindness, my demons twisted it into charity. And because of that, I held back. So, I wrote it, tucked it away, and carried the weight silently. Until today.

I miss you literally every day, a dull, enduring ache that I manage to suppress through work and distance. But I don’t want to disturb or nag you, to force myself back into your life out of selfish need. So, I keep it to myself and hope that you notice me someday and say hi.

And I think you did eventually hurt me when we grew a bit distant, when the communication stalled and the silence upped. But I can't beat myself up because the pain, the loneliness of this distance, is a privilege. It’s a pleasure to be hurt by you. Because it is proof that I let someone real in, that I felt something that mattered, and that the risk was, for a precious, fleeting moment, worth the inevitable cost.

And maybe that’s why this letter feels different. If I had sent it back then, it would have had a very different ending. But today, it’s simply this: I miss you. I hope you miss me too.

Because the truth is, I never stopped. Not for a single day. And you’ve probably moved on, maybe you don’t even think of me at all anymore. That’s alright. But in the quiet moments, when the noise of the world fades, it’s still your smile I see. It’s still your laughter echoing in my chest. It’s still you.

I don’t need a reply. I don’t need closure. I just need you to know. You were my best friend, always will be.

 And I remain, yours truly,

– Derick and not The Imperfect Writer