It's December. Almost exactly a year since I knew I was in love with you, and about a month since you got a boyfriend--although I've lived through a few. You're pretty serious about him. I was right not to confess. It still hurts when you talk about other people, but the pain has dulled a little. I guess that's progress. Maybe I'm finally getting over you.

It's still hard to encourage you or support your romance, but I expected this, so it's kind of on me for falling for someone who would never fall for me. I'm getting there, I hope. I don't type your name on accident when I'm writing anymore. You don't show up in my dreams as often. I don't picture you when I'm creating characters.

You're still my inspiration, and my stories are still about one-sided love, but I wrote a happy one the other day. I can't say I didn't think of you--you were the first person I sent it to after all--but I didn't write about you.

I'm having a hard time finishing your stories. I don't know if it's a good thing. I think it means I no longer picture you by my side. So that's good. I think.

I miss you.