I'm writing this letter despite the fact that I know it may never reach you. I'm laboring under the assumption, hope if you will, that writing my feelings down on paper will somehow alleviate the pain that I suffer inside over our break up.

Maybe? Maybe.

It might not work ... but, at this point, I'll willing to try anything, anything at all short of killing myself. Yes, that's how much it hurts.

I'm going to try my best not to sound bitter in the course of writing this, but please understand that certain portions of this letter might seem that way simply because I am. I mean, you didn't even let on that you would eventually hurt me. I couldn't have been less prepared for what happened last Sunday.

You constantly reassured me that you love(d) me. I bet you've never had to lie so much in your entire life. And yes, I know that it's lie. Otherwise, how could you have allowed yourself to crush my heart in a million pieces the way you did.

And even if you did (love me) ... if what you said was true ... when did you stop loving me? It certainly didn't happen overnight. It must have happened gradually, like a candle that's been burning for hours and is just now dying out. But why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you say something? Why not allow me to redeem myself? Make retributions? Make amends?

You know that I'd do anything for you. You just have to say the word and I'll do it. Just like that.

Anyway, you continued to lavish me with your wonderful kisses and hugs ... hugs that I believed, that I thought were genuine. Tell me, were the kisses fake too? Was it all just pretend?

I have to give you credit, though ... the act was so convincing. You deserve an Oscar, an Emmy, a goddamn Academy Award.

It would've helped if you didn't seem so charming and gallant and altogether wonderful ... all of this would have made a lot more sense. And I'd have had fair warning of what was to come.

I just couldn't deal with it, you know? How could my Prince Charming, my knight-in-shining-armor have turned back into such a heartless toad? And so suddenly, too.

It's probably all my fault. Everything is, really. I know you wanted me to help you so that you won't turn into a cynical asshole. So that you wouldn't become jaded, like almost every other guy out there. I tried, love. I really did. Perhaps my best was just not good enough ... perhaps.

Kind of like how I'm not good enough for your parents, for you, because I'm not a white, Catholic girl. I'm sorry I'm not. I really am. I would have believed in God just for you, you know? I'd do anything for you ... but my skin color, I cannot change. That's the hand that I've been dealt. I just have to make do (or risk the fate of Michael Jackson - sorry, I just had to write that for comic relief - my dad will be pissed if I cry on the keyboard).

I'm sorry for everything that I have done that has made you resent me so. I'm sorry that I wasn't able to keep you from turning into what it is you loathe the most ... you've become just another jerk to break my already dilapidated heart.

And it's okay. It's not your fault. It's all my fault, really.

Anyway, you said you needed time ... to think about our fucked up relationship, to consider things. Take all the time that you need. I'll always be here, waiting for you to come around. You know how I have a special affinity for assholes and jerks.

Always,

Ching.