Dearest
The first time I saw you, you were fourteen, and I was seven. It was summer. I was wildly, madly in love with Harry Styles in the extremely innocent way only a seven year old can be. My room was a shrine to him.
Connor and I happened to share this particular obsession.
Harry was the first thing we truly bonded over.
My mom thought something was up, but my father just thought I wanted to be Harry Styles.
What I really wanted was to be famous so I’d have the chance to meet him and make him fall in love with me.
Since I couldn’t play an instrument and my singing voice needed work, I thought becoming an actor might be the way to go.
It wouldn’t be until I was thirteen that my dad and my brother figured me out, so coming out wasn’t a whole thing at my house.
It was my mom asking me if Connor and I knew what we were doing.
She phrased it better than that, but I understood what she was fishing for, and it made me wonder shit—is that what everyone thinks?
That Connor and I are boyfriends? So, my conversation with my dad and brother went kind of like it did with my mom.
Sort of—Look, we’re close and everything, maybe even soulmates, but it’s not like that.
Connor’s not my type. But, yeah, I do like boys, and we all just sort of moved on from there.
Of course, by then, I’d developed a different, more unfortunate crush, and being gay had become a bigger part of my identity.
The shrine in my room to Harry was gone, replaced with art.
Not art like you make, but illustrations mostly.
Gay, of course. Men loving men in every era.
Usually someone with light hair and one with dark.
Anyway, I can see why they would think it was Connor.
I never did find any pictures of you.
However, I did find a shitty diary with a lock at a second-hand bookstore.
I unlocked it the day I unofficially met you.
That time I mentioned when you splashed water at me in the pool, and Connor shouted my name loud enough for you to hear it.
Anyway, it’s in there. The date I told my shitty diary, Dear Diary, I’m going to marry Archer Micheal Brennan or something like that.
I don’t know where it went, the diary. I just know there’s a date and that particular manifestation inside it.
And a lot of justifications about why I felt so strongly about this plan and you in particular.
For the record, seeing you made me look at those posters on my wall that were still very much there when I was twelve and wonder why I ever thought Harry Styles was the MOST beautiful.
Probably because in real life, I’d never seen anyone as beautiful as you.
I don’t know where the fuck that diary is, but I’m just telling you there’s proof somewhere. So when I said it had to be you, the truth was a little embarrassing. It had to be you because it was always you.
You’ll know soon enough that I was never what I seemed. That I lied to you.
So, here I am with another diary, though this one is nicer. Large, lined, and leather bound. A real “man’s” journal, and I want to tell the truth.
Here’s what I want you to understand. I never thought you could see in me what I saw in you or anything even close.
I was hedging my bets that day in your mother’s kitchen.
That day, I thought you’d be going back to Seattle, and so I lied on the off chance you might feel like making out with me on that particular day, and I at least wanted the option.
I said I was nineteen, you didn’t question it, and we never talked about it again.
Not until you asked if I was going to college, and to be fair, I just nodded, and it’s true—I will one day attend college, so is it really a lie?
Because everything we said after that applied.
But I’m not sure I would have gotten the hug I got that night if you knew how old I really was.
And that’s a hug I wouldn’t trade for pretty much anything.
Here’s my other, final excuse. It was a terrible fucking summer.
Not the one Connor and I had planned for ourselves at all.
It might not look like it from your angle these days, but between Connor and me—I used to be the bigger mess.
When I found out we were moving to Houston for my fucking senior year, I didn’t speak to my parents for two weeks.
My brother is younger. He’s just now starting high school, and he’s about as opposite of me as you can imagine.
He loves video games and cars, and he’s already obsessed with working out and bulking.
He’s the picture of a future frat boy. So he couldn’t care less that we were moving.
He knew he’d be fine, and he is. He’s fine.
Me, though? I’m convinced this is where my life stops.
There was a small chance—before the accident—that I could have moved in with Connor and his dad to finish my senior year where I wanted to be—in Austin with my best friend.
And I say small because while they probably would have let me, my mom—she’s pretty attached to me, and I’m pretty attached to her, too.
So, there you have it—I’ve still got her.
What I never thought I’d get—in any way at all—was you. And let’s be perfectly clear. We went from you weren’t supposed to stay and you had a girlfriend to you were staying even though you and Connor had managed to fuck up your entire relationship in the space of a couple of shitty conversations.
But I want to back up. I should have stayed out of it that first day at the hospital, but I knew a couple of things you didn’t.
We were going to run into each other. You were going to have to meet me at some point if you stuck around for any length of time.
I didn’t leave that hospital except to go home and shower until after Connor woke up.
My mom was actually there a lot, too and I’m surprised you never ran into her.
Or maybe I’m not. You were really going through it, and she and I were fussy enough over him once he got out of the ICU.
I should have just met you the regular way.
In passing at the bedside or whatever. I’m not shy, I think you know that, but I am sometimes one of those people that acts first and second guesses everything later.
I saw you with all these questions I had answers to, and I was sure I could be helpful, and that actually meeting you would put whatever fantasy I had of you to rest. No one in real life could live up to the ideals I’d created in my head.
And, I mean, you didn’t. You were nothing like I imagined you. Problem is, you were better. I thought you’d be aloof, like too good to talk to me. You know—the way Harry Styles would be if I’d interrupted him and his lawyer going over something as personal as a will.
But you were really fucking nice, and if I’m being honest, way better looking up close, which shouldn’t be a thing, but you made it a thing.
I don’t want to blame you for me falling in love with you, but I do blame you because you were so fucking nice to me.
You’ve never been anything but so fucking kind.
Like you liked me. And in terms of things I eat up like crack, someone being nice to me is at the top of the list. Someone like you—you specifically being nice to me—well, look.
I’m not here to apologize for falling for you.
I’d already been doing that in private for years.
Actually doing it wasn’t a huge leap. Twist was—you weren’t straight, and learning that, Dearest, that fucked me up.
Like I knew you’d gone to all boys’ schools and there was a sliver of a chance you’d have messed around a little in your teens, but I wasn’t expecting you to identify as anything other than straight.
I didn’t entirely believe you, either. And anyway, whatever happened when you were cutting my hair was totally annihilated when you fucked Jayne Beck.
And no, I will never get over seeing her in that t-shirt. So, if we ever do get married, which I still think we probably should (I’d be so good for you, I swear), I might have to wear that shirt to the wedding. I hope you haven’t gotten rid of it, because I have a lot of plans for that shirt.
But then last night happened. And as fucked up as it might seem to you now, I don’t think it did last night.
Last night we were in it together. Last night I was more in love with you than I’ve ever been and knowing I might never see you again, but I think I probably will.
And I don’t want you to remember me as some pre-pubescent kid in a pool with a crush on a pop star.
I want you to remember me as the person who trusted you with my body and my heart.
And you really took such good care of both.
I wouldn’t do anything differently now that I’ve had that.
Forgiving me is up to you. Forgiving yourself is too, I guess. But I was desperate. Did it show? Probably.
But did I mention what a shitty summer this has been? Did I mention I barely recognize my best friend anymore? Did I mention that I’ve never felt this fucking lonely in my life? That I am genuinely afraid I might never be happy again?
That I’m still barely speaking to my parents because I fucking hate them for doing this to me when Connor needs me, and I need him, and now I need you, too, because I’m not the one who’s supposed to be needed?
Because I might not be shy, but I’m not all that strong?
That I’m the one who usually spins out when someone says something shitty to me, and I’m the one who cries, and I’m the one who turned Connor into a hugger because I really need a lot of reassurance like—a lot of the time.
I’m scared and I haven’t stopped freaking out since I heard about the accident.
I don’t know if you knew that about me.
I don’t know if you ever will.
Love,
Tristan