Dear Old Flame:
I saw you not too long ago, and I'm not sure if you saw me. Maybe you were pretending not to see me. But then you were gone, and I was sad, because I need to tell you stuff.
First--how are you?
This is awkward.
Okay.
I could say a million things, but they'd boil down to "I'm sorry I broke up with you by ignoring you. I was young and dumb." We had a long history together, and you deserved better. I've thought about you often, even though breaking up with you was the right thing for me. I know you have a son (two sons?), and I know you're divorced. I've been married for eons, and I have a son, too. Are you still funny? You were a hilarious, goofy guy, and you were so good for me. I've heard that now you're angry and sad. I hope that's not true.
Mostly I need to thank you and send you royalties. Remembering you allows me to write that gooshy, smooshy part of YA that is lust, longing, and sadness, all in a big lumpy ball. Without our up-and-down, crazy stupid love I could never have written Morgan and Rob and Derek, or Callie and Ray. In payment for this very handy repository of boyfriend drama, I'll send a check once a year for $1.398. That's 15% of what I make.
I really did love you. It was just young love that doesn't know anything.
I hope you can get happy again. I hope you have a long life. Every year on your birthday, I wish you a happy one. And you were a great kisser.
With much appreciation,
Kirstin
(drawing by Banksy. I love you too, Banksy.)
