Letters to No One

A letter that will probably never reach its recipient from a heart that will probably never heal.

I’m really not sure where to begin.  I guess I should start by acknowledging that, yes, letter-writing is lame.  So sue me.  Personally, I think that it deserves considerably more credit than it receives.  It was good enough for Jane Austen, so it’s good enough for me.  Besides, I’ve never done things the way everyone else did anyway.  There’s no need for me to start now.

            Honestly, though, most of what I plan to say I doubt very much I could remember let alone articulate in your presence.  No doubt you would think of something clever or stupid to say and make me forget what I was going to tell you.  At least this way, I have a chance to finish what I started (a concept with which you are entirely unfamiliar, evidently). 

            First, I wanted to thank you for coaxing me out of my shell, even if only slightly and for a short while.  You showed me that it was ok to be happy, even in the knowledge that this, too, would pass.  I learned a long time ago that things and people leave without warning or care, and that the best way to protect myself was simply not to care.  Or, more accurately, to pretend not to care.  But you showed me that to care for fleeting joys took much more strength and provided far greater reward than to ignore them.  I don’t know if I’ve been able to embrace that lesson completely, but the seed is planted, and I suppose for now that’s the best that can be hoped for.

            A few days ago, I was crying in the gym.  The presentation made me sad.  It somehow managed to reach me on a level that most things can’t—not at school, at any rate.  When I saw you, I fled.  I did not want you to see me in so shameful a condition, so weak.  It is my first instinct to run to solitude in moments of weakness.  Even as I turned to leave, though, I wondered if I was making the right decision.  Could I not trust you with my tears?  Hadn’t you trusted me with yours?  You had, after all, poured out a little of your heart to me, though, admittedly, rather against your will.  Could I not manage the same feat?  No, it turned out.  I was too powerfully programmed by my own insecurities to allow it.  I still am not entirely sure what, precisely, stopped me.  I think I was afraid not of what you would think of me, but what others would think.  What I would think of myself.  I hate crying.  I do not appreciate the pity it garners and absolutely despise the assumption of weakness.  I think, had it been only us in there, it may have ended differently. 

            I trust you.  I have no idea why, but there it is.  I trust you more, I think, than I’ve ever trusted a person (a man, anyway) in my entire life, however brief.  While reliable for appointments you are not, I know that I could share with you my deepest, darkest secrets and you would not judge me or laugh.  You might not understand or agree, but if I needed your help, you would be there for me, which is more than can be said for most of the people I know, including family.

            I do not know how you managed to break through my defenses.  They were very good.  Highly effective, until you came along.  I do not regret it, but I do wish that you could have made things a little easier on me.  I was fourteen years old, why couldn’t you just tell me no and let it be?  I would have gotten over it.  Or else, tell me yes?  All that being on the fence broke my heart every day for three years, you know that, don’t you?  Why couldn’t you choose?  Telling me maybe just gives me hope but no reward, and gives you a way out with a way back in again in case you change your mind.  It’s cruel.  However else you may have meant it, it was cruel.

            I suppose that this brings me to my final point.  In spite of everything—or perhaps because of it—I find myself in love with you.  Very much in love, or as close to in love as one can be at sixteen.  I understand if you do not return my feelings, I even expect it.  But I felt it only fair to both of us to tell you everything.  It is true that at sixteen, I know very little.  It is also true, though, that this is the closest I have ever been or, I think, will ever be for a very long time.  I do not easily grow close to people.  I am not the type of person who can meet their best friend or lover in a coffee shop and be done with it.  You have been there for me when I needed you and somewhere in between liking you and hating you, I fell in love with you.  I didn’t mean to, I swear.  In fact, once I worked out what was going on, I tried rather hard to stop it.  Turns out, though, that once that particular train gets going, there’s really just no stopping it.  That’s another trust issue that I’ve had to tackle.

            I hope that this doesn’t freak you out too much for too long.  Also, I hope that you can read this.  My handwriting is probably dreadful.

            Well, you’re a college man now.  There are going to be keggers and beautiful girls only too happy to oblige anything you wish, and anything you hadn’t dared to wish yet.  I hope that you don’t forget me while you’re there.  I won’t forget you for as long as I live.

            You won’t need luck in the academic world, but you may need some in the real one.

            Good Luck.

 

 

 

Author's Note

This is probably in the wrong section, but there was no heading for 'Love Letter' so, deal.

Reviews

[lilain]

You've opened up a major window to your soul and to post this is brave. Not only is it splendidly written, but your message is so familiar. You've stirred up a past in me that seems so familiar even though I've buried it beneath time and experience. Vulnerability, I think it is, and I like you have tried to deny it, when in truth it is the first step to finding love.

Very good job. I'm impressed and look forward to reading more of your work.

Take care,
lilain