Did I tell you I will not be meeting you again? Yes. I know it doesn't matter to you either. Well, it does matter to me. Which is why I won't.
Why am I writing this? Just.
I have nothing to prove. Nothing to say. I would not mind you returning a few of my stuff. And the most of it you did not even know you had. You will, may be. Someday. Or I am thinking you will.
What intrigues me is that I feel nothing. Nothing at all.
Like a spell undone. Like the beginning of time. Like the autumn sun on a torn cob web.