Do you still have my books? (Personal Letter)

I should be sleeping already but instead, I'm wishing that someone who knows you realize that this very letter is about you, and tag you. It's been what, three years? And yet, here I am still having dreams about you. Here I am, still hoping you'll reach out to me one day and return my books. Here I am, still hoping there's more to return than little, forgotten books. Do you still have them? It's ironic that you're the one who has stuff of me but I'm the one who can't forget you. I don't have anything that will remind me of you anyway and yet here I am writing this letter still. Perhaps, I still like you. I still do even if I keep on telling myself, I'm over you or even if I gush over Chris Evans so much. It's still you that I want to talk to during the most exciting or terrible phase in my life. And as much as I want to blame myself for clinging so much to that littlest hope there is between us then, I cannot go back to the past and unsend that message where I told you never to contact me or act like you never know me when you see me. Well, if you'd like to know, I lied. I want you to contact me, and tell me how you really felt about me. I want you to talk to me when you see me and tell me that you're already with someone else because probably, that's all I need to hear so I can start to really move on in my life. Because as you, I've been faking it all this time. So please, tell me. Tell me something that will hurt me once more so there'll be no more pain afterwards. I'm tired of thinking this will work out when obviously, all there is are uncertainties. Vague illusions of you and me happily chatting, laughing of the messy past. Please, tell me. Tell me so I won't miss out again... whenever I'm missing you.