Rejection Letter: Jane Barron de Burgh

Dear L—,

I should never have sought you out behind the bins at McDonald’s that Thursday and then again on Saturday. It was selfish of me. I did not know what I was looking for, but it was not you.

I understand myself better now, but more than that I understand you, L—.

You’re too fickle.

For a while, you kept me warm. But never warm enough that I do not notice the piece of lettuce stuck to my shoe. You are fleeting and foul and soon enough I’m left like a blue Slushie™ when there is no more blue and it’s just slush.

When you first took me in your arms I rejoiced, you were the sugar and sweetener, the whipped cream to my coffee; we made dessert together. We were a snack, we still could be, but no one needs pumpkin spice all year round. Together we were delicious, and the comments, the likes, felt good for a while. I would boast that I was complete #goals, even though I felt hollow. Now that you’re gone, L—, I realise the good stuff, it might be deep and dark and bitter, but that caffeine kick, it was in me all along, I didn’t need your whipped cream to keep me satisfied.

I have fallen out of your arms, L—. But don’t worry about me. I don’t worry about you. One day someone will curl up with you, and the cage of rom-com clichés will be a sanctuary rather than a stereotype, the promises you make to one another will be out of devotion rather than strictures your fear to fail. I hope, L—, that someone will fall into your arms once again, and you will be there to catch them.

I have something else now: I have friends, family and familiarity, I am sorry, L—, but I don’t need you. I have myself.

– Aro

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