You found a note.
Manically scribbled on a 3-by-5 card, in pen, spelling out my anxieties and my contempt for your bad habits and my shortcomings, my predisposition for running away from adversity and conflict, my fears of what our future would hold. Months ago, I planned on leaving it out casually for you to find, because I did not have the courage to face you myself and repeat those same words.
For fear of losing you. For fear of losing myself. For fear that having that talk and making it come true. Because, as long as it lived on that paper, it would only exist in its own realm. You found it today, while cleaning the room. I am glad I was not there to see it. You placed it back where you found it, and it sits in that drawer, poor Schrodinger's note.
Part of me hopes the emotion behind it gleams between the lines, bright enough to be heard and understood. It was a part of me then that I needed to release. It still carries weight but no longer its validity.
We are both different people now.
