It’s been a while since I got a letter, and while my secret admirer —or whatever they are— was gone, I didn’t miss it as much as I thought I would.
They gave me something to hold on to while I was fighting to keep my head above the water, but as soon as Johnny and the others came storming into my life, I had something else to use as a life raft.
But when I found a letter sticking out the side of my bag after class today, I held it tight. My fingers couldn’t have been pried off the thing even if I was dead. The words hit a spot in my heart I thought was lost forever, and when I read it… that part started to beat again.
The world is still spinning, and I think it’s because it still has you.
How could words on a piece of paper changeintricate parts of your soul? Change who you are at the core of your being and shake the ground you stand on?
How could this person see me in a way I didn’t know was possible?
When I got home, I stuffed it under my pillow, along with all the others, keeping them close so when I need them —and Iwillneed them— I can re-read them and remember that somewhere out there, someone knows exactly what I’m going through.
They can see through the invisible bubble that seems to surround me.
But the feelings these letters force to the surface are nothing like how Johnny makes me feel. He brings out the best in me, makes me feel alive, and forces a smile to my face no matter how bad a day I’m having.
“What are you doing, Chickie?” My dad asks, walking into my room with two cups of coffee in hand.
I stuff the letter under my pillow, “nothing.” He quirks a brow, knowing all too well what it looks like when I lie.
I could never really lie to him, at least not with my words, and he figured out pretty quickly that when I stay silent, it means I’m trying to hide what I did.
“Fine,” I relent, “I was reading a letter.”
He takes a seat next to me on my bed as I lift my pillow, taking in the sight of the many letters I’ve kept to myself these past few months. I offer him the most recent one, allowing him to read it… but only this one.
He hands me one of the mugs before taking it, his eyes scan over the words a couple of times, “this looks like a love letter to me.”
“Not a love letter,” I tell him, “just someone who understands me, and knows what I need when I need it.”
He smiles, “it’s a love letter.”
Rolling my eyes, I take a sip of the coffee he brought me, and relish in the feel of how normal this all is. A couple weeks ago I would have been terrified to sit in a room alone with my dad, but now I look forward to the time we spend together.
He’s been making more of an effort lately, asking me about my day and trying to get me out of the house with him. He even invited me to dinner with him and mom, but I couldn’t stomach the thought of getting in the car, so I declined.
They’re both aware of my feelings towards driving, and while they’re trying to give me space to sort it out on my own, they’re also pushing me to overcome my fears.
But it’s not that easy.
I used to love driving everywhere, blasting music with the windows down and letting the wind whip through my long hair. Jurian and I used to take drives around the city just for fun, with nowhere particular in mind, and enjoy the moment.
But even if I wasn’t afraid of the rolling death traps, I don’t know if I’d want to drive without my favourite co-pilot.
The memories that I have of my brother are holding me hostage in my own head, but I’m not sure I want to break free of them.
“How are things going with that boy of yours?” He asks, settling further into my bed.
I shrug, “they’re… okay.”
“Hm,” he hums, “I take it neither of you has stepped up to admit your feelings then?”
“Nope.”
“What’s stopping you?” His tone is soft, treading the topic carefully.
Everything.
