12.25

[The only thing stopping me from Catherine is what I'm going to do next: assemble and re-read what I have]

She got that look in her eye (the one you love) when she looked at me yesterday. You didn't see it, but I did. I swear I didn't do anything about it. I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier, but I don't suppose you'd believe me.
That's not all the truth. I'm avoiding telling you the rest because it won't help anything, I swear. So I'll tell you anyway. In all reality, she and I started kind of becoming a thing . . . when? Two weeks after you and she broke up? Something. She came to see you, crying and about to collapse on our doorstep. I was there. You weren't. I didn't see the significance of it then: I just wanted to help a friend, really. Then, last week, when she tried to kiss me at three a.m. after the party, I think I kind of recognized it all then. She wasn't just trying to be friends with you; she wanted to be closer to me. Because I remind her of you, and I was there when she was crying and you weren't. I put her off, I swear. Nothing happened, and I'll say it even though you won't believe.
Oh, and on Sunday, when you found her outside trying to decide if she should come in? That was for me, too. She woke up with one of those vivid nightmares she gets and she texted me at five in the morning and kept texting me until she finally drove over to our house at seven. She was waiting for me to wake up when you met her on your way to work. You won't believe that, either.

So I'm going to burn this letter, collect the ashes, and leave them on your desk. Because you deserve to hear the truth.