Hello, my butterflyer.

Today I confessed to your friend and he told me you like someone else.

I know you care about me as a friend. You'd never want to hurt me.

You'd feel guilty if you knew how much you did.

It's not your fault, Thomas.

I'm sorry.

Brock was a backstroker. My first crush. It was an obsessive limerence, not true love, though I thought it was love back then. But he rejected me, and it took me a year after that to get over him. To heal. To love again.

I've been healed for less than two months and I've loved you for one month; known you for a year now. This is deeper than Brock, a thousand times. This, I know, is actual love. But it's unrequited of course.

These experiences will scar me for life. I don't think I'll ever be able to commit and love and trust the same way I have before. Brock ripped me to pieces and you put me back together and now you're ripping me apart again although you don't know it.

I'm sorry, flyer. I'm sorry you did this to me. I won't tell you. I don't want you to hurt because you hurt me.

Who is it? Erin? Katherine? Lauren?

Whoever it is, I hope it works out and you're happier with her than you would be with me. I hurt everyone who gets close to me, as a friend or otherwise. Honestly, you're much better off without me.

If you get together with someone you truly like, it will stab me through the heart, but I'll be happy for you. Because even if I'm dying over here, I want the best for you. That's what true love is...right?

-- I was once a breaststroker. Now I am nothing. And maybe someday I will be a backstroker.

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