I guess this is the part where I pour my heart out. Bear with me. I'm not used to doing this, to writing everything down. I used to write letters to you all the time, but... lately, things have been different, and I stopped writing letters because sometimes, writing down your feelings means realizing things about yourself, and I learned some things that I wish I'd never found out. But that's for another day. Basically, you can consider this a conjoined letter. It isn't just to you, it's to my friends, too. It's to everyone whose lives I touch, and everyone whose lives touch my own. The "you" is a collective you. You've begun to notice. I hear it starts out like this. First, you'll joke around with me about it. This is to lighten the mood. To judge my reaction. But also, it's to draw everyone else's eyes to it. To make everyone notice, in the hopes of making things happen. That's where we are now. I get the jokes, I get everything, and I shrug it off with a forced smile to make sure you don't get worried, but you will. Hell, you are. You'll mention it a little more, your voice will get a little more serious. It happens. Stop. Stop worrying about me. Seriously. I'm not kidding, I'm not being modest, and I'm not being ridiculous. I really, truly mean that nothing good will come of you thinking about it, even if the only time you think about it is when you notice. Because I can handle myself, and there's nothing wrong anyway, just a few things that I'm working on changing. I swear, once I get myself to that point where I feel good in my own skin, I'll stop everything, and I'll be the person you knew again. Except here's the thing. I haven't changed. Maybe I adopted a new habit. Fine. But I haven't changed anything about myself. I still think just as much as I used to, I'm still just as self-conscious as I used to be. In fact, if anything, I'm happier like this. I find pleasure in things like losing two pounds, which happens often, so I'm constantly proud of myself. So stop pretending I'm worse off, stop acting like I don't know how to control myself. I can. Shit, I talked to one of you about it already. And you agreed with me! You said you're the same way, everything. You said you understood, and then last week, you told me that your ex-girlfriend stopped eating because she thinks she's fat, and that's it's scary. "Scary like you scary", you said, and I said, "I didn't realize I'm frightening," but you stopped talking. You're trying to tell me that you're worried, and I've been telling you since January to stop. And as for you, Mister Sudden-Romance. Quit it. I've liked you for a year and two months, and let me tell you that I find nothing better than the thought that you might return said feeling, but... But if they can't handle it, who says you can? You'll find out, and you'll hate me for it. Or worse, you'll worry about me for it, and that'll put a strain on our hypothetical relationship, so let's just end it here, okay? Stop with the chocolate-buying. Stop with the flirting, with the kisses on the cheek. Fuck. I'm so vunerable right now, I could puke. No pun intended.