Honesty Demands Honesty | Teen Ink

Honesty Demands Honesty

January 18, 2012
By chocolatesummerlaughterbliss SILVER, Seattle, Washington
chocolatesummerlaughterbliss SILVER, Seattle, Washington
7 articles 0 photos 7 comments

Favorite Quote:
the moving finger writes, and having writ
moves on; not all your piety and wit
can bring it back to cancel half a line
nor all your tears wash out a word of it

The note was sealed with red wax.
Admittedly, it was only the wax from a cheap red candle that had been dribbled slowly onto the folded edges of the paper until it was stable, but it was still sweet. When opened, it cracked along the lines of the individual drops where the wax had fallen, rather than a jagged line down the center, and released a scent of cheap wax and cinnamon apples. Somehow this seemed more fitting anyway.
The penmanship had been done by somebody who was passionate about what he was writing. The ink spots, the scratched-out words and phrases, the strong right tilt of the lettering. Each period and comma was a stab into the soft paper. Margins were considered at first, and eventually disregarded completely. Wild flourishes and loops in random places only added to the impression of a desperate man, writing like he had no other option aside from insanity.
The words- the words. Pleading and passionate and sweet and strong by turns, it wreaked havoc on any reader’s emotions. Even the parts which indicated the letter was clearly being written with a specific person in mind- Your melodic voice, how your eyes almost close when you laugh, the way your fingers dance on the edge of a table when you’re restless- it could hardly be read without drawing a soft sigh.
It was the kind of letter you could only expect to find in your grandparent’s attic or closet in a box of old things. You could read it, and think, “This is why my grandparents are together and happy.” Then you’d sigh and look over it one more time before replacing it in the old box in which you’d found it, which you’d in turn put back on the pile of books on the shelf where it had been when you’d come in.
There were now creases in the corners from where it had been clutched in tense hands. It was almost about to fall apart along the creases of where it had been folded. In a few places, the page was streaked and water warped from where frustrated tear-wet fingers had stroked it.
Whirling distress and sorrow whipped through her chest. She read it, bravely held in a sniffle, read it again. It was good to be loved; beautiful to be loved. But there was no easy way to respond to something like this with the only response she could give. She couldn’t think of a way to easily tell him that she was in love with somebody else. She was envious of his courage. There was no way she’d ever be able to tell the girl she loved about it.

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