Hey Space Cadet

A Story by Contessa

A letter from one lost soul to another. Named for Car Seat Headrest's song Hey Space Cadet

Hey Space Cadet,

Remember how you used to be called that all the time? Anyways, I finally arrived. Finally. After hours upon hours of sitting in the broken-down car that had needed to be serviced for a good two years. After days of driving down two-lane desert freeways gripping the steering wheel as tight as possible and refusing to look back in my mirrors because I knew that if I faltered for one moment, I’d turn around and drive back home. After weeks of rushing down blank highways, a little too drunk, shoulders hunched, staring at my headlights on the blacktop, consumed by the calming pain of a highway at night. After nights spent at rest stops trying not to pick up the phone and call you. Because I knew if I did I’d get right out of that f*****g car with the service lights blinking and the old tuner and the s****y suspension and limited space and run down the highway until I reached you and jump into your arms and never leave. No, I held out, because if I didn’t, then I’d think of your eyes and your strange mind that seemed to float above the rest of us. A space cadet. That’s what you were. But I loved it. You were different. You thrived on love, and almost killed me with your inability to reciprocate. But on the rare occasions when you showed it to me, I suddenly remembered why I stuck around. You didn’t have your life figured out, not really. You had a vague plan, one that was boring, but we both knew you’d probably try to do something spectacular. Something that brought the night sky a bit closer, maybe. Something with art.

So yeah. I arrived. I miss you terribly. I know you probably won’t even open this, but I’ll send it regardless. I like it here, I guess. It’s very different from home. I have a small apartment, nothing fancy, but with just enough room for two people. I suppose I’m still holding on to what you told me. Someday, we’ll live together, you and me. But we all know that’s not how it’s going to work. There’s nothing wrong with dreaming, perhaps, yet being realistic has its values. We’ll live our different lives on different sides of the country, and I’ll start my career here and never really amount to anything huge, I’ll never hear of you again, and I’ll miss you but you won’t miss me. You’ll do something great, something fulfilling to you. And I’ll try to amount to something. Maybe we do know each other too well. Maybe we don’t know each other well enough. But here’s our chance, because I’m writing this in pen. You’ll get my honesty at last.

We had nothing but drama between us. You knew it and I didn’t, but I see it now. Maybe it was something about those empty roads I drove down, drunk, at two a.m. Maybe it was something the roses I almost sent you. But it doesn’t matter. I see it now. We’re too different. You’re big and I’m small and nothing can span the gap. I miss you. You don’t miss me. It’s as simple as that. I thought of you. You didn’t think of me. I needed you. You didn’t need me. So here I am, off to start a new chapter of my life with a hurting heart, an empty promise, and this partially-finished rambling letter.

I’m not even sure why I’m writing this. You’re not even going to open it. F**k, I’m rambling, aren’t I? God, how you hated it when I did that. I guess I just wanted to send you one last desperate attempt to tell you how much I love you, and how much I hope you’ll change your mind and turn that promise into one that’ll be kept.

Yours always,

Tessa