One selfish letter

    There are more ways then one to convey my apologies to you but I knew, after some thinking that this is the best way to help me correct any mistakes in the words I use and to let you comprehend in your pace. 

    First of all, I wanted to say, I'm sorry, for ripping out the pages in this story. I told you before that I like to listen to people's story and it makes me more human. That is because everyone is like an author to a book in my eyes, each with it's own uniqueness, still writing. I enjoy reading and adding notes to the writing pages, putting pieces of myself in everyone's story, unlike others, intentionally. However, I was never good at writing. Sometimes I write too much and ruined that one page of the book, and most times I write too vigorously my ink seep through the pages and ruin more than a page of the book. So I decided to write more lightly, using less words, be more selective , sometimes even just using a stamp, so that as little ink will be used as possible.

    It was then you came along, a tiny journal with it's weight so light that I thought it's going to be just a few pages worth of materials to be read. So I didn't even grab my pen, I just took a stamp opened the book. It was then I realized that the book was light because the pages are light and delicate, with each words so calming and familiar, doodles on the corners and tears similar to mine. Before I know it, I was writing like I did before, with so much force, so many words, and was reciprocated with as many words and even more vivid words. Very soon, I saw my ink starting seeping through the pages but you constructed your paragraph with that in mind as if the ink and the words were always meant to be there. I was using more ink than I have ever before, more engaged than any books I have read so far, so much that I just stopped reading and or writing on the others. To my surprise, you have sneak more than a few words into my book that I rarely open to others, a book with a fancy cover which is only to become more fancy as times goes on, with it's content so dull and dirty, with holes and molds that even I didn't want to look at or write in. But you, read it, drop tears on it, and held it so close to your chest before returning it, the book that once was mine no longer look the same after that. 

    As we wrote so frequently in each other's book, we started intentionally leaving spaces, even pages for each others to write on and things has never been better for the pass few days. However, my fear struck me, the ink I haven't been using started pouring out into your pages and yours into mine, but my mind begin to doubt if it is worth it... for you and me. Are my ink wasted on a book with my chapter ending before the book does. Is mine worth hold the ink you saved so dearly. I fought the desire to stop, I tried to be patient and continued writing. Perhaps I didn't try hard enough, but the results remain the same, I ripped the remaining pages you left for me, leaving enough space only to write one word, "I like you". Then I started ripping apart the notes I made to write in your book, while condemn myself for a part of me hoped those refined and fragile pages of yours would held on like cloth and remain resilient, how selfish I was. Then I ran, back to my book, back to my lonesome, back to scribbling and drawing circles on the blank pages I left for you, hoping to fill it up with anything and move on.

    I don't know if you even noticed the missing pages and the tears I left behind, but my mind has been racing since then, picking up the pages and notes I ripped, looking at the spaces you left for me and the notes I made for it. I couldn't even bring myself to fill the pages I intended to. It was then I realized, I left all of my ink with you. All the time I wished to spend, all the feelings I wished to spill, all the happiness and sadness I wished to share. I know it's selfish of me, and I know you have no reason to give me said opportunity, but will you please let me write in your pages again, and please let me look at the pages I tore out, I promise I will be stronger, I promise I will mend the pages and write much more carefully this time. I don't know if it will make it even, but I wish to give you my book till you are tired of holding it, I will let you know all my thoughts and feelings in it's purest form, make myself bare and let you realize how insignificant I am and how little I should effect you at all. So please, let me finish my chapter in your book, no matter how much you have planned for me.