Dear L
~
I told myself I would wait at least three days before writing again. A reasonable interval, I thought, to allow you time to process my rather … overwhelming previous letter. Yet here I am, barely twenty-four hours later, unable to keep myself from writing to you again.
I am choosing to believe you haven’t responded yet because you’re crafting the perfect reply.
Perhaps you are on your fifth draft, searching for precisely the right words to gently let me down.
Or maybe—and I prefer this theory—you’re composing an epic response, a novel-length letter that requires considerable time and thought.
Other possibilities I’ve considered:
You’ve been kidnapped by a roving band of theatrical squirrels who demand you write, direct, and stage an original production before they’ll release you.
Your enchanted letter box has developed sentience and is now holding my letters hostage, demanding better working conditions and possibly a small salary.
A jealous parsnip has intercepted my letter, finally taking revenge for my years of vegetable slander.
I realize I’m being ridiculous. You’re probably just thinking. I know you like to do that.
Hopefully still yours,
R
Dear L,
Something amusing happened today that I immediately wanted to tell you about, and then I remembered—I can. Even if you are not responding, I can still write. That is allowed, isn’t it? Please tell me that’s allowed.
A staff member cast a charm meant to freshen the draperies in my mother’s favorite drawing room and instead made them whisper polite compliments to everyone who walked past. They called me ‘Your Most Distinguished Eyebrows,’ which I have a sneaking suspicion was the draperies’ way of mocking me with excessive courtesy.
I couldn’t help wondering what compliment they might whisper to you if you walked past. Probably something truly flattering, as I doubt there exists a single aspect of you the draperies could bring themselves to ridicule.
Still thinking of you,
R
Dear L,
I saw a garden today that made me think of you.
Not because it was beautiful—though it was—but because someone had planted roses next to vegetables, and the roses looked personally offended by the proximity to carrots.
I could practically hear them gossiping: “Can you believe we’re expected to share soil with root vegetables? The absolute indignity!”
I wondered what your ever-blooming roses would think. Would they be horrified? Or would they see it as an opportunity to establish dominance over a new territory?
Missing your thoughts on ridiculous matters,
R
L,
I’ve realized I don’t actually know how to exist without your letters anymore. That’s terrifying, isn’t it? When did you become necessary to my daily functioning? When did ‘I should tell L about this’ become my first thought whenever something interesting happens?
Today alone, I’ve mentally composed five letters to you:
- One about my pegasus staring at his reflection in the water trough in what I can only describe as deep, brooding self-admiration
- Another about the mystery of why sandwiches always taste better when cut diagonally
- A complaint about buttons (why are there so many?)
- A question about whether you think fish get thirsty
- And this one, which is really just me saying I miss you
The last one seems to be the only one that matters.
Waiting (im)patiently,
R
Dear L,
Five days. Has it really only been five days? It feels like months.
I’ve started three different letters to you today and burned them all. They were all variations of ‘please write back’ dressed up in different words. This one will probably join them in the fire, but I’m writing it anyway because the alternative is this crushing silence.
Do you know what the worst part is? I can’t even be properly angry. I’m the one who broke our agreement. You wanted distance, safety, the protection of anonymity, and I asked for more. Of course you retreated. Of course you’re silent.
I only wish I knew if this was goodbye.
Foolishly yours,
R
L,
A full week. The rational part of my mind says I should stop writing. But rationality has never been my strongest quality, as you’ve probably noticed.
I’m sorry. Truly and deeply sorry for overstepping the careful boundaries we established. I did it because I was thinking of what I wanted rather than what you needed, and that was selfish of me.
If there’s any way we might find our way back to what we had before, please tell me. I would do anything. Absolutely anything.
R
L,
Will you ignore me forever?
I need to know. If this is the end—if my confession has severed the connection between us—please tell me. Send back a single word: Goodbye. I’ll understand. I’ll respect it. I’ll stop writing.
But this silence is agony. Every day I check the box, and every day it’s empty, and every day I wonder if you’ve even read these letters or if you’ve closed the box forever, leaving me to pour my heart into a void.
I’m not asking for what I asked before. I’m not asking for more. I’m asking for an ending, if that’s what this is. Even rejected suitors typically receive the courtesy of a refusal.
Please. Just one word. Even if it’s farewell.
Still desperately yours despite myself,
R
Please.