Cynthia,

Let me start by saying thank you. If it is truly you reading this, I want you to know that I am not blind to the pain this letter has no doubt caused you. Accepting—much less opening and reading—a letter from a man who claimed to love you, yet treated you worse than dirt, is something most would not do.

This letter is not an apology. I have given you those, and I know you do not wish for more (although I will never stop regretting the way I treated you and the things I said). This letter is not a desperate plea for you to forgive me; although I will crave for your forgiveness, I will not beg you for it, nor will I ever expect to hear it—I do not, after all, deserve it.

(I never deserved you either, of course, but that is a fact I will not delve into at the moment.)

No, this letter is neither an apology nor an appeal. This letter, I hope, will merely provide you with closure; it is the least you deserve, and perhaps the only solid, truthful thing I will ever give you.

Contrary to the portrait my actions have painted, I am not a complete idiot—not most of the time, anyway. Although I was never (and never will be) worthy of your friendship, devotion, and love, I like to think that I did learn you. The way you worked, how you thought, the subjects that interested you and the ones that didn't—I remember all of them.

I also remember the insecurities you possess, the doubts that reside behind your bravery and bright heart. I know that my words on that horrible day struck you deeply; I am sure they reside in the back of your mind like a nauseating chant that refuses to leave you alone, providing an unnecessary and completely unwanted background noise that eventually becomes so ingrained in your mind that—whether you are aware of it or not—you start to believe the words being said.

It sickens me to know that I, a man who claims to love you, am responsible for that belief.

I will state right now that the words I said were said in anger: those words never were, and never will be, the slightest bit truthful. Thinking back on it now (something I do more often than I should), I realize that the things I told you were a projection of how I viewed myself at the time.

I will go through them now, if only to clarify what I am trying to say:

I told you that you relied on me for everything, do you remember that? (Stupid question; of course you remember.) I dug my hole even deeper by telling you that you would not be anywhere without me. Those words, I want you to know, were and are not true. You did not rely on me for anything, nor did I have any affect on your success—you were (and are) the most independent, fiery, and courageous woman I have ever met. No, you did not and do not need me for anything. I was the one that needed you. You were the sole reason I got a degree; you were the only thing that kept me from losing my mind on most days; you were the single light after my father died. I would not be anywhere without you. I relied on you.

When you confronted me for how I treated you, it was my worst fear come to life, because you had finally woken up—you had finally realized that you did not need me. I think that was why I showered you in so many gifts. I always knew you did not need me, and the only way I could think to keep you around was by bribing you through materials. A stupid mistake, of course, but I seem to be good at making those.

So no, Cynthia, those words I said were not meant for you, nor could they ever be true if applied to you. Do not let them cause you to doubt your worth or your achievements—you and your attitude alone are to thank for your successes.

I hope now, with this knowledge, that you will be able to move forward and find love with a man worthy of you, your smiles, and your never-failing loyalty. Find someone who recognizes your worth, cherishes your laughter, and would shoot himself before ever making you cry.

I wish you the best, Cynthia, and I only hope that your life provides you with the happiness you deserve—the happiness I was never capable of giving you.

I have no right to say this, but I would like to, one last time:

I love you.

Sincerely,

Francis