Twenty-nine
TWENTY-NINE
My Strings,
I’m sitting in the hayloft right now. Right where we met. I’ve been in the hayloft hundreds of times over the course of my life, but I never imagined this spot would change my life. I never imagined it would magically introduce me to my favorite person in the whole world.
I used to rush up here when I’d get that quivering feeling in my chest. I’d come to this safe space to cry, shake, and puke my guts up. Now, I rush up here to laugh with you. I settle against the hay to pour out my thoughts and ramblings. I climb the ladder to hear your heart. I plan my entire day around this because for the first time in my life—someone listens, responds, asks questions, and actually cares about the answers. For the first time ever, someone is there—day after day—because they want to be. Not while they’re passing through or when I’m in convenient chatting distance or because they need money.
For someone like you, maybe that doesn’t seem life changing.
But it’s brought gravity to my existence, Strings .
As much as I personally gain when I read your words, that’s not even the best part…
The best part is you, the person behind the words. You are, without a doubt, the most beautiful soul I’ve encountered. You have no idea what you offer to people. I hear your heart for others and your heart for me. In my nineteen years, I’ve never met someone who loved so big and so loud. You are in every corner and treasure every shard of life. You can’t hold it back. It spills all over the pages and it is…this is where I get frustrated with words. Trying to encapsulate you is an injustice.
Intoxicating? Beautiful? Enchanting? Precious? I flipped through the dictionary a while ago and that didn’t help in the slightest.
I have a confession to make. I hope writing it down will ease the guilty ache in my chest. I’ve loved your words, but recently, they aren’t enough. I read them, and…the thoughts I get scare me. I’ve started wondering what you look like. Or what your hair might smell like. I’ve wondered what it would feel like to hold your fretting hand.
My brain has pieced together an image of you. And I imagine you leaning against me, playing Glory, while I fiddle with the ends of your hair. I imagine us laying in the hayloft, laughing this time. I imagine us around the ranch—riding Tillie and swimming. I imagine us watching a pink sky and listening to the starting chords of a Texas night. I imagine you whispering my real name, and me whispering yours.
I imagine kissing you, Strings, and holding you.
Because I’ve fallen in love with you.
I love you. I love you so much my chest is ripping open.
And I hate it. These feelings are incapacitating because I shouldn’t be having them. Maybe one day, for someone. But not you, not now. You’re still young and our lives are as opposite as the sun and moon. Having you is as possible as sprouting wings and flying through the clouds.
Two weeks ago, I wrote you a final letter under the guise of a busy schedule. You’ve written me a couple letters since then. I threw both away without opening them. I’m so sorry. But I knew I didn’t have the backbone to hear your voice and not respond. I would crack so easily.
It’s wrong for me to love a girl still finishing her sophomore year of high school.
But I’m sick with missing you. I crave your words like a man running out of oxygen.
In an attempt to do the right thing, I’ve wrecked myself. But taking care of you is worth it. I won’t be that guy that loves you young and destroys your life. You deserve the right guy at the right time. I like to pretend there will be a right time for us, but the truth is—as much as it guts me to even write it—I’m not the guy.
The right man is going to stand in the light of your window and hear the music of your soul. He’s going to pull you close, treasure you, beautify you, and shower you with every good thing his safety has to offer. His love is going to make you better, if that’s possible, than you already are.
And I can’t do that. I can’t get through a day without emotionally collapsing like some screwed up piece of garbage. I could try to be all the right things for you. I could try to take care of you. Try to protect you. Try to make you better. But try is not good enough in love. I’m bleeding out. I’m on life support when it comes to love. How could I possibly give love away? I can’t be strong for you when I’m needy, desperate, and clinging.
If we were a chain, I’d be the weak link. Every damn time.
And you deserve far better.
That’s why I stopped writing. If you asked me one more time to call you, or send you a picture, or show up at a funeral, or visit over the summer, or do any other thing…I’d be that guy to show up and destroy your life. I’m weak for you, Strings.
Mere words and one midnight memory can make a person fall in love. At first, I wondered if I was in love because I was careless or stupid or something. I thought maybe my history made me too hungry.
But, I know you love me, too.
And knowing I’m breaking your heart by not writing to you anymore makes this so much harder. Some wounds heal with time and I’m praying this wound is one of the some.
One day, I’ll be a mist of fond memories and clutter in the top of your closet. Maybe by then, you will have forgiven, or better yet forgotten, me.
I wish I could put this letter in the mailbox. I wish you could clasp these words to your chest and feel them sink into your heart. I wish you could see my tears on the page and know, deep in your spirit, my love is real. I wish you could hear me one final time.
But some things are better left unsaid.
Please…damn it all…I’m so weak…please don’t let this mar your memory of our times together in these pages, alright? Let’s remember us for what we were. Remember me for who I will always be—your biggest fan and most eager friend.
With every scrap that’s left of me, I adore you.
I love you, Strings.
Always yours,
Scribbs