Dear Asshole,

It’s almost midnight and here I am, lying wide awake on my bed, thinking what exactly went wrong. I ponder on several obvious questions: Haven’t my gestures been obvious enough to make you realize how I really feel about you? Are you just too naïve that you’re not able to read my signs? Or maybe you did read them, but you refuse to give back because you’re simply not attracted? How do you honestly feel about me?

I’ve never been one of an expert to read signals, and yours aren’t exactly the easy type to understand. Your gestures are vague, subtle, yet also unpredictable and highly indecipherable. It feels like I have to screw my hopeless brain around to break down everything you did and said to finally reach the end conclusion of your inmost feeling which is hidden deep beneath.

I recount every little sweet gesture that had happened in the past: The gentle stroke on my hair, the little squeeze on my fingers, the random message asking me how I am, the midnight chats filled with pretty words and enthusiasm to be in each other’s company… Those were the things that constantly gave me hopes. Those were the things that made me believe our feelings are mutual, everything but a one way street or a dead end, accepted and positively responded.

Then I recount every little unpleasant gesture: The way you always spelled my name wrong, the other short midnight chats where it seemed like you didn’t even feel like talking… Suddenly all lingering hopes are crushed into bits and pieces. The lights I’ve taken refuge in before are dimmed. The fulfilling warmth is replaced by a bitter cold, like the changing of a softly beaming dusk into a dead silence of the night.

You keep repeating those conflicting signals. After a while I begin to see a pattern: Once you get my hopes up, you’ll manage to succeed in getting them down again, and so on. You’ve trapped me into a vicious circle of never-ending uncertainties. I may know your pattern by now, but I still can’t predict what kind of message is it exactly you’re trying to send out.

The worst thing is now I don’t even know what to do. I’m not sure whether I should keep going forward, because I’m scared that you’ve never felt the same way in the first place. But I’m also unwilling to give up just yet, afraid that I might be wasting something very valuable yet sill unseen, which is the possibility of a returned feeling.

If only you’d speak it out. I need a certainty, an assurance, no more than several words. The road is only diverged into two; either “I’m into you as well” or “I’m simply not into you.”

It’s already midnight and here I am, lying wide awake on my bed, aching from how much I miss you. Aching from the fact that I haven’t got you quite figured out yet, furthermore from the fact that I probably never will.

Aching from the mere possibility of a broken-heart.