There's this thing called pity.

And I really don't understand why people actively seek it out.

I've been told that I'm way too hard on others sometimes, that I'm this frigid person who doesn't care about people's problems. That's not true. I just don't give pity to people who want it. Because here's what will happen when you pity someone who wants it. They're going to get the idea that whatever it was they were doing to get pity is okay to do, and they will do it again just to get more pity. And that is a cycle that is really unhealthy to get involved in, so why indulge them in the first place?

I don't know or care if that makes me harsh, selfish, inconsiderate, etc. But if you think about it, not everyone in the world will pity you. If you hand in an assignment that's two days late to your boss and tell him your sob story, do you think he's going to pity you? No, he's going to fire you. So allowing people to become conditioned to being pitied is actually pretty dangerous. So I'd say I'm helping people out in the long run. I'm not saying you have to be completely ruthless in order to survive, but sometimes you just have to grit your teeth and take the pain. There's really no other way to deal with it.

I don't know. That's just my two cents.

Don't get me wrong, I love reading.

But in a way, I feel that all the books and fics I've read have desensitized me to the point where nothing affects me anymore. Nothing feels original. If something good happens to me, it doesn't feel special because I've already read that somewhere in a book. It's almost like my life is a series of stories that are waiting to draw to a close.

Kind of pathetic if you think about it.

Andrew, I can honestly say.

That at one point, I kind of wanted you.

Too bad nothing can cure us now. Too bad you were fifteen and I was eighteen. Too bad I was too scared to do anything when I had the chance.

Too bad that nothing can make better this impossible age gap.

Dear Hansol.

Yes, they're back. All the pieces I've ever written about you or your brother are back online for the world's viewing pleasure.

The phone call I had with you in November was one of the most shaking things I ever had to go through, even though I know that, comparatively, it's not a lot. I couldn't write for days, weeks afterwards. I spent over a month with my fingers hovering over my keyboard, trying desperately to get you out of my head, trying so hard to write something without hearing the disdain and hurt in your voice. But I couldn't write anything. After what you said to me, after listening to you almost on the verge of tears, I couldn't write anything else without being afraid that someone would come along and be just as hurt by what I wrote as you were by what I wrote about you. And I hated being scared of writing, because writing is one of the biggest joys of my life. And I hate to say it, but I also hated you for that month and a half, because you were the one who took it away.

But now, I've come to realize that trying to hold onto whatever semblance of friendship we used to have is not worth giving up what I love to do. So I'm republishing those pieces, every single piece about you, about your brother, about people you know and people that I know. Because like it or not, they're some of the best writing I've ever done, and no one has the right to deny me that.

I broke the promise I made to you by writing about my friends Calvin and Wendy. You told me not to write about people anymore, and for the weeks following, I was so breathless in trying to keep that promise that I spent those weeks miserable and shaken and emotionally, artistically drained. I broke that promise because I couldn't live that way, I broke that promise to you because you broke your promise to me. You said you would come to me if you needed help, and you never did.

I tried to be your guardian angel, Hansol, and I suppose that's where my biggest mistake was. You never wanted help, because you were far too proud to stoop that low. And I suppose that at some point I may have loved you, but now I just feel sorry. I feel sorry that you can't stop and appreciate literature for what it is, for whatever happiness it may bring a person, for the happiness that it brought me.

So yes, I'm saying it. I don't care if you don't like it, but I'm putting everything back online. I don't care if I lose you as a friend, because quite frankly, I don't even know if what we had is worth calling friendship. I will miss you and the rare smiles you gave, I will miss the feeling of pretending to feel close to you, but I will not miss your contempt or your bitterness, the struggle you wage so intently against the world. I never intended for you to be so hurt by what I wrote, I never intended for anything to be accurate or true. I tried to make it fiction, I tried to speculate your life and your problems, but I guess it didn't work. You were stung and offended, and for that I'm sorry, because that wasn't my intention at all. But I have a right to display whatever I like, wherever I like, and you have a right to not read it. If you hate it that much, just look away.

I've wanted to write this letter to you for a long time, and now that I've done it, I feel so much better. Hansol, though you may hate me now, I just want to say this: You were the best inspiration ever. I've written things about a lot of people, but none of them have been as emotionally striking as the ones I've written about you. You inspired a lot of feelings in me, some sad, some heartbreaking, some wistful and some happy. And though I will continue to write about whatever I want, I will make you one last promise—I won't write about you ever again.

Happiness.

Is like a giant balloon filling up inside of me, about to burst.

Appreciation.

I'm starting to ache for people I never thought I'd miss, especially this much.

Late night, hunger-induced, and slightly delirious video chats are the best remedy to loneliness.

Getting there.

I'm finding my place. Happiness is suddenly easier to achieve.

(: