From Danika Starbourne
Danika Starbourne
High Ridge Observatory
To “Orion Frosthelm” (or whoever the hell you are),
I don’t know what kind of game you think you’re playing, but let me make something very clear—leave me out of it.
At first, I thought this was from the old man at the other end of the compound, but the police informed me that he had passed away, and while I was in town I found his death certificate in the county archives.
I’m not entirely convinced this isn’t some elaborate, pathetic attempt from Matt to get my attention again. Honestly, it would be just like him, wouldn’t it? If this is him, then let me say this once and for all:
Matt, I dumped you for a reason. Several, actually. You were bad in bed. You were cheating on me. And worst of all? I didn’t even care.
Not really.
By the time I found out, I was already gone. Numb. Checked out. There wasn’t a single tear. Not even rage. Just this heavy, dull silence inside me. Not because of what you did. It’s always been like that with me and the guys I’ve dated.
No one’s ever reached me. Not in that deep, curled-up-inside-my-bones kind of way I read about in books and see in movies.
Not the way my parents love each other. Or the way my friend Libby’s parents would just sit and gaze at each other.
I’m not sure if we lucked out seeing true manifestations of love, or if it cursed us with high expectations for the mediocre guys we’d meet in our lives.
I’ll probably end up living with her and a herd of cats. Which doesn’t depress me.
I get more joy out of my vibrator and my own fantasies than I ever did with a man.
At least my toys don’t talk over me, don’t need validation, don’t lie.
And if I wanted something different, something better, I could just order a new one online.
No emotional damage, no drama. Just batteries and bliss.
So if this is Matt, marry Bebe. Don’t marry Bebe. I do not care. Just leave me the hell out of it.
And if this isn’t Matt—if I’m actually receiving unsolicited soulmate proclamations from a complete stranger, then let me be even clearer. I. Am. Not. Interested. I don’t know who you are or how you got my address, but I don’t need a man. I don’t need a cosmic mate. Or soul mate. Or whatever.
I don’t need some overbearing, arrogant weirdo interrupting my career with ridiculous demands to accept our bond and pledge my eternal devotion.
I have real things to focus on. My work is what matters. Not you.
Whoever you are—Matt, Bebe, delusional stalker, or some creep who thinks he can dictate my fate—this is your final warning.
Cease and desist,
~Danika Starbourne