Write this on August, 13th 2014.
I write the letter a month before your birthday—actually, a day after we fight a lot about whom I should date; about how bastard you think a man who’s close to me right now.
Also, I write this while listen The Smiths’ song, a Morrisey one, Back To The Old House.
Not so sudden, it occur me. After all, whoever I date or marry, I guess you are my old house; the one that stay true and real. The one I can always turn back, over and over again, whatever the conditions.
Happy Birthday… That’s all I want to say to you. I don’t know how we make this friendship work, but we make it anyway.
We fight a lot, we sometimes fight dirty. I hurt you because I’m too stubborn, also vice versa. But, again, we make it anyway. So I guess, that’s the sign that we can stick together until die tear us apart. (I hope..)
I don’t know you still remember about this/not, at the moment when we talked in Bourbon Coffee and you said you can’t help it if someone hurts your family (in this case, me). I don’t know you realised or not, but at that moment, I’m fucking trying my best to hold the tears. At the moment, I feel like you teach me and make me know that someone–somebody out there–simply high value me for who am I. And I’m cry because of that feeling.
Thank you for being such a great friend and good human being. Thank you for stay with me in whatever my conditions.
Well, you know all my wishes to you. You know what I want you to change. And you know that you’re that precious to me, too.
Thank you for simply being you and being here. Everytime.
Again, happy birthday.
I would love to go… Back to the old house… (The Smiths)