How are you, little butterfly? (Personal Letter)

I don’t write letters anymore. I stopped since the ocean inside my heart grew quiet. It was peaceful - peaceful for a good period of time until I met you. All of a sudden, the waves came little by little until it crushed the wall of this little, vulnerable heart.
I don’t know what composes you. I can never understand you or the way you avoid the eyes of everyone. You’re always alone – no, you always like to be alone. Yet, I could see boldness and so much potential. I don’t know why you’re trying to hide that. I don’t know why you’re trying to avoid the fact that you’re somehow worthy of attention. You deserved to be seen by a lot of people not just by these two, blurry eyes of mine.
No, actually, scratch that - I like it this way. I like it that I am the only one seeing you. Because I’m afraid for the world to notice you and recklessly snatched you away from me – from these two blurry eyes. I’m afraid that they’ll bring you somewhere far and I’ll lose sight of you.
But who am I to keep you from the rest of the world? Who am I to take you away from your future? You’re young and talented and one day you’re gonna have to leave. Yes, soon you’ll leave, exposing yourself to much clearer set of eyes and you’re going to forget about me. I’ll become just your distant memory while you’ll always have a special place in my heart, just like the stars in the night sky even if they’re long gone.
Yes, you’ll always have a special place in my heart. I’ll always remember the specific sound of your thick voice whenever you tell me about your writings. I’ll always remember the gentle, charming way you smile and laugh. I’ll always remember the awkward way you walk and avoid people’s eyes. You charming, lanky young man, I’ll never forget about you. I’ll always have the mental image of you, sitting at the farthest row, staring at the window. And who knows what’s going on into that dark but colorful head of yours? Can you even tell that I’m thinking of you and that I’ll always be thinking of you?
I wish I could tell you about the first day I met you and how you caught my attention by your pretty, little poem. I wish I could tell you how much I want to talk to you about these damn, surreal books. I wish I could talk to you about how much I want to read your writings but never mine because it’s going to be about you from now on. I wish I could tell that you’re special, that you shine in your own way, and that you need not to doubt or compare yourself to others. But would these things even matter? Would these even matter when I am – all I am is this unattractive, weirdo who can’t even fix her own messy life?
Although it breaks my heart not to be able to tell you these things for the rest of my life (most probably), nothing is still ever more heartbreaking than the fact that I have to let you go now. In the first place, I never own you. You’re merely just a caterpillar I attended for a short period of time. And now, it’s time for you to go out of your cocoon and become a butterfly. You’re going to fly so the rest of the world could witness how great and beautiful your wings are. You’re going to meet a lot of flowers but you don’t have to worry. You deserve better flowers than this unattractive, broken one. You don’t even have to thank me for nursing you for a while. It’s all you – you’re already great. You just have to see that from your own two eyes, even if they’re as blurry as mine. Oh, you pretty, damn thing, how great will you be? I wouldn’t want to know. No, I fell hard enough to even know. x