Dearest Remarkable Ridiculous Ravishing R
~
At last, I have found a way to shock you rather than the reverse.
Dare number nine. Smoke driftshade leaf. I daresay you thought I wouldn’t do it. But I have triumphed. I have
In addition, I should warn
It is highly probable my mind is still drifting while writing this.
And highly probable that I shall regret this tomorrow when I
But I keep telling myself that I should try. At least try. To explain. Because am I not supposed to be bolder now? Is that not what you’ve been trying to show me with this darned list of yours? That I can
Did you overwhelm me again? Yes. You absolutely did. Your words have a terrible way of slipping past all my carefully constructed barriers. As if they know exactly where the cracks are.
I should be furious with you for that ‘you already have it all’ declaration. It was unfair, you know. Spectacularly, breathtakingly unfair. You broke the rules. You were supposed to pretend that nothing has changed between us. That you are not desperately mine.
You were supposed to pretend you are not fully aware that I am
That I am also
Have you ever wondered what it’s like to feel everything too much? Every emotion amplified until it’s almost unbearable? The smallest joy becomes ecstasy. The mildest disappointment becomes
I have spent my life learning to contain it all. Building walls. Creating distance. Finding safety in solitude and
Music.
I am not certain whether I have spoken to you of the music. I think not, for I still cling rather tightly to the safety of this anonymity, and I’ve been wary of sharing anything that might give away
But the music helps.
It is not that I do not want to feel. It is that I feel too intensely. I am a cup filled beyond its capacity, perpetually spilling over.
And LOVE? Love terrifies me more than anything. Because if ordinary emotions already consume me, then love would
I do not want to drown in it, R.
I do not want to drown.
I do not want to drown.
And your words. Your terrible, wonderful words. They keep finding me, no matter how I hide. ‘You already have it all,’ you said. As if you’ve surrendered something precious into my keeping without my consent. As if I’m supposed to know what to do with this … this …
It feels like
SO MUCH.
TOO MUCH.
I believe I should climb into bed before my quill wanders its way right off the edge of this
My dearest L,
I find myself oddly speechless after reading your letter—an unusual state for me, as you well know. Your driftshade-induced honesty has given me a glimpse of something I’ve long suspected but never fully understood until now.
First, I must congratulate you on your triumphant completion of dare number nine.
I confess to a not-so-small smile at the thought of you, my cautious L, engaging in something so delightfully improper.
Though I suspect by the time you read this letter, you may be cursing both me and my ‘darned list.’
Please do not regret what you’ve shared. I understand the morning light often makes us wish we could reclaim our nighttime confessions, but I beg you—do not take these words back. They are precious to me beyond measure.
I cannot claim to understand what it means to feel everything so intensely. To experience the world as you do, where every emotion threatens to overflow its boundaries. I can only try to imagine what that must be like, to live with such depth of feeling that you must build walls to contain it.
And now I understand why my words sometimes require days of silence afterward. Why you need time and space to process what passes between us. Each letter is not merely words on paper for you, but waves that crash against those carefully constructed barriers.
But listen to me, L. Listen carefully.
I swear to you that I would never let you drown.
If you fear the overwhelming tide of feeling, then let me be your anchor. Let me be the steady rock against which those waves break. I promise you—with everything I am—that I would hold you firm through any storm of emotion. You will not be swept away.
You fear that love would consume you? It need not. Not if you have someone to help you carry it. Not if you have someone who understands that sometimes you need retreat, sometimes you need silence, sometimes you need space to breathe when it all becomes too much.
I know these are only words, and perhaps you cannot bring yourself to trust them. You know me as teasing, light-hearted, rarely serious. It may be difficult to reconcile that with someone who claims to be solid and steadfast—an anchor in turbulent waters.
But L, I am still here. After nearly a year of letters, I am still here. I have watched the seasons change through our correspondence, have shared countless thoughts with you, have found myself transformed by your words. And if there is one thing you can trust, it is this:
I love you.
I have kept myself from writing those words for so long because I knew they would frighten you, but I want to leave you with no doubt:
I LOVE YOU.
(You are terrified right now, reading those three little words. Your hands are shaking. Perhaps you’re finding it hard to breathe. For this, I apologize. My words are overwhelming you all over again, but I will not take them back. You need to know them.)
If you could bring yourself to take this risk—to let this feeling in—I believe you would discover something wonderful: that when the wave washes over you, you remain. Different, perhaps. Changed, certainly. But not washed away. Not drowned. Not consumed.
And I would still be there, holding fast to you.
When you are ready—and only when you are ready—I am here. I have patience enough for both of us. I have always suspected that anything truly worth having with you would require time and care and gentle persistence.
Take your time, my L. Process this in whatever way you need.
I will be waiting, as always, for your next letter.
Yours, steadfastly,
R