September, 2028
Dear Asher:
Did my fart spook you? It did, didn’t it? I realized it after weeks of not getting another letter. I know you’re only twenty-three, and you might think girls are all glitter and spice, but I’ll let you in on a secret: everyone farts.
Everybody poops too.
Most women bleed through their vagina.
And I’m done being weird now.
I’m writing this tipsy.
Tipsy and alone.
This was another month of me being everyone’s mom.
Livie’s confidant and pillow to cry on. My mother’s medical jargon translator.
The best maid of honor a girl could ask for, driving around town for hours until Nicole found her favorite dress.
She looks stunning, and she will be a beautiful bride soon.
I got promoted at work. Yay, right? Wrong!
It comes with more responsibilities, and now, I’m mentoring new nurses.
They’re so sweet and innocent and full of light, and I just don’t have any in me to give them anymore.
I feel like I’m tainting them with my perspective, and that makes me feel even worse.
That’s my recap. I sound absolutely insufferable, and I might understand if you just want our friendship to end.
I do need to know before I buy tickets for the gala this year: are you still interested in coming along, or did you find a woman to love?
Let me know either way,
Xo,
Hales