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Dear Alastor,
It’s been awhile. I haven’t exactly been around you or Lucifer much since the wedding, I know, and I owe you an apology for that. I didn’t know what to do or say, and I was just happy to have made a good final impression there. I do hope the gift worked out for you, and I hope married life is treating the both of you well. From what I can tell, it seems like it is. You seem happy, and that’s really all I can hope for you.
Which, of course, makes this letter something important to send now. It’s probably not the most amazing timing. Some of this you deserved to know so much sooner, and I should have said it years and years ago. I couldn’t ever find the heart, though. I was hurting, and I wanted to hurt you, then, too, sort of. I think I probably would have tried to, if I did send something then. It wouldn’t have been real. But I’m confident I can explain things now. I don’t want this to read as any excuse, or anything other than just an explanation that might shed some light on my actions of the past. It poses closure for me, I think, and I hope you’ll allow me this one final act of selfishness.
I absolutely was in love with you. I can’t tell you when it started, and it certainly never ended. I don’t say it to do anything about it - I can love you now in a way that wishes you nothing but the best. Things are different now. But back then? I was head over heels for you. You were my first anything here, you know that. A mentor, a best friend, someone I could truly rely on and trust, and someone I felt trusted me, too. It was the best years of my life and death both, I think. I’d never known someone like you before, and I don’t think I really ever will again. I loved you heart and soul, everything you did and said I committed to memory. I wanted to be someone you wanted by your side.
I was never under the impression you felt the same. Maybe you did, once. We became affectionate, I know, and there was that kiss we never spoke of, but I always assumed you didn’t want that relationship from me, and I was content to just be with you. I thought talking about it would be the end of things, and would be dangerous, so I just never did. I don’t know if that was the right choice, but it’s the one I made.
You told me you hated me, back then, and I never forgot that. Before you left. I realized how foolish I had been then. I was trying to impress you, you know. I know it doesn’t make sense, but I wanted to be someone worthy of you. I knew I was a weak little thing when you found me, and for some reason, I thought if I became something greater, something larger and better and more, that you would be impressed. Proud. But everything I did pushed you away. I was changing, I know. I lost myself somewhere in there, expecting you to think it was cool, the way I acted. I don’t know why I thought that. I was desperate, the more you pulled away, so desperate for any attention you would give me. I tried so hard, fought with myself constantly. Thinking I just wasn’t good enough anymore. And I guess I wasn’t, just not the way I thought.
I stopped upgrading after that. You disappeared for seven years, and I tried really hard to get over you. Over us, whatever we had been. I convinced myself that you were dead, even though I knew, realistically, that you weren’t. I tried to find myself, threw myself into work, made so much goddamn money I don’t know what I’ll ever do with it. I told myself I didn’t care that you were gone, but I grieved. It hurt way more than I ever thought it would, but I ignored it and pretended that it didn’t matter. You hated me, after all, why should it have mattered? I’d fucked it from the start. I wished I hadn’t. I wished you’d joined us, I wished you’d accepted, I would have given anything to see you. But I’d always been good at pretending for the camera and the people, and so I just did that. Every day.
You came back, of course, and something was different. I was so happy, and so angry with myself, I knew it wasn’t something to celebrate. What was I going to do, ask you out for coffee? I thought maybe I could hate you, too, and it would be fine. But I couldn’t. There was no real heart, I still don’t know how to be fucking mean, can you believe that? Not without provocation, not without pent up energy. I tried so hard, but it never worked for me. I spent my nights crying and trying to convince myself of this new feeling, and failing every time. It was so pathetic.
And then I thought you died again, and that was something else. I grieved again, and it was so much worse, knowing how I’d been trying to treat you. You were fine, of course, just injured, and you were back again, so much sooner, but I knew even less what to do. I couldn’t find the words to apologize, I didn’t know how to reach you, really, I was scared of what you might say or do. Always scared to make it worse, to ruin it more, somehow.
You met Lucifer, and I remember my heart breaking more. I guess I saw quickly how you’d be with him. It was frustrating to see you doing things I wanted with you, but there was always something in me that felt happy for you. That, if I couldn’t do it with you, at least you found someone. That’s all that’s left now of the feelings, too. I really mean it.
I’m so glad you’re happy. I’m so glad both of you are happy, you both deserve it. And I don’t intend to ruin that for you. I know you hate me, and I know things are just settling and that’s something I think I should leave alone for you. I really just want you to know that I care, that I always cared. I know it didn’t always seem that way. I know I fucked it up, and I’m sorry I was so fucking stupid.
I’ll leave the both of you to your lives. You don’t have to worry about me crashing into your life any time soon, or ever. I’ll keep to my things and my people and wish you all the best. It’s time I let go of you, finally, I think, something I probably should have learned to do when you basically told me to. I’m sorry it’s taken so long.
That’s basically it. I know it’s a hell of a letter, selfish of me to ask you to read it. But maybe it’ll help you understand, too. Maybe it’ll be enough to at least forgive me for the old things.
With love,
Vox.