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Dear You

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It’s almost 1 am, Thursday. I have to be up for class in a few hours but I saw something that reminded me of you. It wasn’t even an out-of-the-ordinary kind of something, just a regular, common, every day something.

I walked to the food court to get some lunch in between classes. I wasn’t feeling the milk, so I went to get a fountain drink. I had intended on getting Mountain Dew, but they had Mello Yello instead, and I don’t know if it’s the lack of the ‘w’s or something else entirely, but for some reason it isn’t the same as a good old Mountain Dew. I found myself wishing for a magical fairy to come change it, and I thought of you.

I thought of that night at the school lock-in in middle school. We didn’t really know each other, you were just some kid from the grade below me who was on my section. Your friends were off doing whatever, and mine were dancing. I wanted to take a break. That was when I saw you sitting all by yourself at on of the tables. I figured: why not? It might have been the the obscene amount of caffeine and sugar we had both been consuming, but we spent the next couple of hours laughing and joking. One of us made a comment on how we wish there was a magical being, like the tooth fairy, who would come and replenish Mountain Dew bottles when they got too low. That was our inside joke for the rest of our school years. We explained it to others sometimes, but it was never as funny as it was to us. Even when you were with her, it was our thing and sometimes I can’t help but miss it. Sometimes I can’t help but miss you. And I know I have no right. We were never together. I said no twice, and I know the third time would have been the charm for you but you had to leave.

That’s why this still bothers me. Because you weren’t supposed to leave. Because we will never know what would have happened. One day you were there, and the next you were moving to the other side of the country. And now you’re so close again, 45 minutes, and I can’t bring myself to open that door again. The truth of the matter is that we aren’t living in a movie world and that door has been welded shut for awhile. It was sealed when you didn’t respond to that last letter, even though I said you didn’t have to. It still hurt. But I had no right to send it, and I’m sorry for that. I gave no signs I wanted you until you were gone. But you had to have known how I felt. Right?

I want to talk to you, but I don’t know what to say. I can remember your face, your voice, how I had to look up to look you in the eyes. I never realized until this very moment that every time I described the kind of guy I wanted, I was describing some version of you. Tall, light eyes, funny, creative, blond, likes cats, brilliant, driven. You. Because I believe for some reason that we would have worked. Because I believe for some reason that we could still work. I know we can’t, but it’s a lovely thought, isn’t it? Or do you not think about me like I think about you?

Does it even matter?

I think I care to know the answer. I would much rather keep it buried because truth can be harsh and it can spoil things and I don’t want it to spoil how I remember you. Even if it’s not how you are now, I want to keep my happy memories of you in tact. And if that’s wrong, so be it. If it’s only hurting me, so be it. That’s how I want to remember you.

Sincerely,

Me.



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