Dear M.C.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic
Here it is, a nice little letter for someone special. It's not amazing and it's not beautiful. It's just me.

Submitted: January 31, 2012

A A A | A A A

Submitted: January 31, 2012




It's almost dawn. I’ve been lying awake all night, thinking of you. Was I on your mind? Did you at least dream about me?

Oh, but it doesn’t matter. These endless questions are not the reasons for my letter to you. I write at this early hour to finally speak clearly. Here, in this writing, I’ll tell you everything, and it’ll finally be off my chest.

Well, I guess I should start with the frankest part of this letter. Here comes the dreaded confession. The whole “I like you” deal. So, that’s it. I like you, and I don’t me like as in between friends. I mean the elementary school definition. Yes, the one that’s supposed to mean “I love you.” Maybe you don’t really want to take it in, but there it is.

And it’s more than just a crush developed over the span of seconds, the likes of which typically develops in middle school girls. This is the sort of crush that’s taken time to develop. Time, as in since we first met. Well, not exactly. Maybe, but not exactly.

See, I liked you since the beginning, and then I started getting to know you better. About a year after we met, I started to see what a great person you are. Let me go further in depth.

It possibly started in 7th grade, when we saw each other a lot more. Maybe that’s just when I truly realized it. I mean, it was all about how you treated me. It still is. You always listen, even if I’m getting annoying, though you never show that I am. This makes me feel special, even when I’m depressed. Furthermore, you treat me as if I’m any other person. People always think I’m made of either fine china or bulletproof glass. You just act as if I’m a normal person with emotions, but enough strength to get through life. I really appreciate that, especially when I’m in those moments when I feel anything but normal. Thanks, because these are reasons to love you.

Maybe these are broad reasons, though. I can go more in depth. I will, actually, because you’ll never have to read this. Does it really matter? Thus, that leaves me to tell you more.

How’s this – I write you a little poem. I think that would help. Here it is:

Words swirl through my mind,

The sounds for them I can’t find.

To you a million things to say.

I’ll start now, if I may.

I love your smile,

It gets me past any trial.

I adore those eyes,

In them, I can see the sky.

That laugh is my favorite sound,

It lifts me off the ground.

Your personality’s the best,

It beats all the rest.

But that’s far from all,

And it’s nothing small.

When I’m in the deepest well of depression,

You’re the one to make the pain lessen.

When I’m in this dark tunnel, with no one,

You light up the world, like the sun.

When you go away,

The world turns grey.

What would I do

Without you?

These are some of the things I would say.

Maybe I’ll find the sounds one day.

Then maybe I can let you know

How hard I’ve fallen

For you.

Get the point? I hope you do, because there’s nothing much else to say. I can spend years trying to find the words for how I feel, but they’ll never come. Hope this poem gives you the idea.

Really, is there anything else to say? I could ask you out, but that’s not what I sat up all night thinking about. Besides, I can’t do that in a letter. I can do it by a note in your locker, a messenger, or in person. This letter isn’t for that, though. It’s for what I started with. It’s for telling you how hard I’ve fallen.

But would you ever really think about this? By next year, I worry that your eyes won’t be on me anymore. You’ll move on, and I’ll be left in the dust. That’s not what I want. I just want your eyes a bit longer. Please? It’s one of my biggest requests.

That may not happen, though. In that case, I need to leave you with something of me. I need to tell you the truth before you’ve moved on. So, here it is, its fullness. Thanks for reading.

Yours Always,


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