My words have reached you. They've gotten to you. That's a good start.
I can't wait for you to read me, to answer me, to send me words I like or not, which will please me or make me cry, but which will be better than nothing, than the silence, the indifference.
Answer me.
That's all I want.
I'm addicted to you… I felt better for a while, appeased, less hooked on you. We didn't write to each other anymore. I thought of you less and less. I had memories and I was fine with that.
I didn't think I would write to you again, because to me you are the first bite, the first sip, the risk to relapse, not vey low, just into your arms, but that's already enough.
Today, I caught a glimpse of what I hadn't felt in almost two years: the fear to lose you, even though we're not a couple, even though there's still no such thing as "us".
How is it possible?
Is it the danger we like?
Defying what's forbidden.
Flirting with the limits.
Being caught in the middle.
Never knowing why we want to see each other nor how our connection holds on, how it resisted through time and how, despite our differences, we're still talking to each other.