Dear Jamison,

I don’t think I will ever have the nerve to send these. But if you are reading this it means one of three things. One: you invaded my privacy and found them, if that’s the case: How dare you? Two: I actually did send them to you. Three: you read them on the website I intend to submit them to publishing for. That doesn’t really matter but, then again neither do most things. Jamison, I would like you to know that I love you. I always will. I can’t believe that just a year ago I had no idea who you were, had I seen you in the hallways I would have thought: "hey she is attractive", but nothing more. Now when I see you I think all sorts of things, I wonder what you think when you see me. You say I’m important to you, but I am not so sure. You look at him and I see absolute adoration. When he looks at you I see desire, nothing more. That kills me; it kills me when I see you loving him. When I see that I wish so desperately to be him. There was a time, once long ago, when you were that way with me. I wish everyday that I could go back to those times. My dreams predicted you with him. Recently I had a dream where he left you. I hope for my sake and, in the long run, yours that this is another prediction.

With Love,
Q.J.