Work Text:
From: lix <[email protected]>
Sent: Thursday, June 16th, 10:32 PM
To: chris <[email protected]>
Subject: a graveyard of memories
Dear reader,
Do you ever think about life and get this unbearable sense of grief?
I’ve been trying to be a little less pessimistic, but it’s not as easy as my friends make it seem. Life is pretty ruthless and unfair, and I’m angry all the time, and I’m so tired. I’m exhausted, and I don’t know what to do anymore. What are we even supposed to do, anyway? And I can’t hear another “you should do what makes you happy” because this isn’t a movie.
I just got back from work, and I’m talking to you because Jinnie — my best friend, if you’re curious — showed me this website about penpals and meeting new people or whatever, and I told her it was bullshit because why would I ever want to talk to strangers online and blablabla. Guess I’m a liar, in the end. I do need to talk to someone who doesn’t know me because I already know what my friends are gonna say and I can’t stand it when I’m this frustrated.
I just got home, and I’m still wearing my stupid bra and my stupid jeans and my stupid socks, and there’s cheap wine in my hand, and I can’t bring myself to eat anything because my mind won’t stop working and making me anxious. I’m so tired, my distant friend-to-be. I wish I could cry all night, but there are things to do, and people to talk to, and I need to sleep soon because I have classes tomorrow morning. I hate to be young and already this hopeless. Wasn’t I supposed to be living the dream or whatever? Weren’t these supposed to be the best years of my life? And why, for god's sake, do I feel so miserable?
You know, I’m supposed to be an artist. I’m a writer, and I love music, and I wish I was a painter like Jinnie, but I’m a lost cause. I love to sing, and I cook every weekend, and I try to change my style every few months — even though I just look like a depressed university student who works till late at the moment. I’m also pathetically cursed with fear of rejection and low self-esteem. The idea of putting myself out there is terrifying, even though it’s what I dreamed of since little me learned how to make art.
I’m a pathetic little woman, reader, and I’m so tired. I got rid of the jeans, ‘m sorry for being this indecent during our first conversation, but I feel like I’m going crazy. Do you think I’m crazy, reader? Do you feel the same as me? Is your life better than mine and you’re gonna read this, laugh at my whining, and never respond?
The night sky is pretty today, and my house smells like lavender and wine. I hate coffee, but I need to buy more — it’s kind of a needed item when you’re a student. I should eat something. I don’t want to do anything. I can’t stop trying to find out when everything went wrong. Is this part of girlhood, having a life crisis in their 20s? It must be. I hate it. I wish things were easier.
My roommate is sound asleep, and I wish I could send you an audio just so you could hear her loud snoring. She’s a sweetheart. I don’t know what I’m talking about anymore. I’m so tired. I need a shower, and I need to eat, and I need to never feel like this again. I need a hug, and a pair of new shoes, and a dose of tequila, and time to breathe. I need to stop grieving all the time, but what do we do if not walk down this graveyard of memories, trying to accept things for what they are just to grieve about the same old things all over again at the end of the day?
What do you do in the night, reader? Do you sleep early and dream of what could be? Do you stay awake until 3am and drown in loneliness? Do you work at night? What do you do, what are you thinking, what do you think of me, what do you do when you think you hate everybody, what is your favourite colour, who do you call when it’s late at night? Do you prefer coffee or tea? Tell me. Tell me whatever you want.
I might feel embarrassed about this in the morning, but I can’t be bothered right now. Am I going crazy, reader? Do you think I am? I think so. How could I not, how could I not? There’s so much happening all the time. I think I need some more wine. Maybe tomorrow. I should sleep. I should do a lot of things. I wish I’d done a lot of things. Do you ever get sad by the things you never did? Do you regret things all the time just like I do?
Who are you, reader? Tell me soon.
Sincerely,
Lix.
From: chris <[email protected]>
Sent: Friday, June 17th, 3:45 AM
To: lix <[email protected]>
Subject: ends and beginnings
Dear stranger,
Don’t you think there’s something really special about late night overthinking? You never know what to expect, never know where the first thought will lead, but it is special because there’s no one else around. The rest of the world is sleeping right now, while I’m sitting in my bed writing this for you. It’s a secret you and I and the moon will keep forever.
But no, stranger, I don’t think you’re crazy. Or maybe you are. Aren’t we all, honestly? We’re surrounded by a kind of darkness we can’t quite run away from and if there’s someone still sane inside this bubble of misery, maybe they’re the crazy person instead of you and me. It makes me sad that you’re so hard on yourself, but I’d be a hypocrite if I told you to be kind when I’m no different from you. Maybe that’s part of the deal of being an artist — the curse of it, the thing that makes you hate it just as intensely as you love it. Isn’t it so achingly bittersweet to be alive?
If you’re wondering, I’m a musician. I draw a little now and then, but just for fun. I like to cook as well, but I don’t have the time to have proper meals. I write poetry sometimes when lyrics don’t come as easily as they should. It helps. There’s just something about words that make things easier, yeah? It’s like ripping your heart out and squeezing every drop of pain on paper, or something. But I’ve been struggling lately, straight out of my worst nightmares, and I don’t know what to do. I go to work, and I come back home so tired I can barely change my clothes, and I lay down and I can’t bring myself to sleep like a normal person when I need to wake up at 5 in the morning because I have classes at 7.
I don’t think my life is any different from yours, dear stranger. I’m just as drained and sad and I don’t know what to do either. Maybe it is part of girlhood, the life crisis in our 20s. But it’s scary to think that maybe we’ll never know what to do until we die without doing anything we really wanted because we were too scared to try, or too stuck in a job we hate to give thought to our dreams because, at the end of the day, we’ve got bills to pay. Capitalism sucks. I’ve got nothing figured out, stranger. I’m sorry if you were expecting anything different. My life is no fun either.
Can I trust you, stranger? Will you keep all my secrets tomorrow, just like I’ll keep yours tonight?
I wish I could be younger again, sometimes. I’m not old by any means, not really, but I feel like I am, and I hate it. I hate this stupid sense of responsibility and the motherly worries about the ones I love and the lack of youth I apparently have. Isn’t it pathetic to be young and constantly drowned by the dreams I have and I’ll never achieve? Isn’t it sad that I can’t allow myself to be vulnerable because my brain is so mean it made me believe people wouldn’t like me if I ever showed anything besides the reliable side I chose to be part of my personality?
Maybe it’s my fault, in the end, but I came to terms with my flaws long ago. I guess the dangerous thing about late night thoughts is that you can’t control any of them, not even the ones you thought you were over already. Do we ever truly get over things? The things that crushed your soul so powerfully you feel like you lost a part of yourself, and you can never get it back? How do we come to terms with the fact that we’ll never be the same ever again? I don’t miss who I used to be, but it pains me a lot that I’ll never have her again. Does that make sense? I don’t know.
Regretting is part of the journey, stranger. Grieving is part of being human. I grieve all the time for the same reason you do. Maybe the past will haunt me forever, eat me alive and spit me out again, crush me and put me back together. Maybe it’s love that’ll save me. Maybe I’ll forever be the one saving myself. Who knows, stranger. I’ll wonder for the rest of my days.
You can call me Chris, by the way, if you want. I like “reader” too, don’t worry too much – sounds like I’m a mysterious character in your new book. Since it’s Saturday tomorrow, you should do something to relax. I hope you feel a bit better today, yeah? Make yourself some tea, if you hate coffee that much. I hate both of them. I’m a simple and boring woman, don’t expect too much from me.
What do you write about? I’d love to be your reader if you’d like. Tell me more about your days and thoughts. Tell me more about you. I’m listening.
Regards,
Chris.
From: lix <[email protected]>
Sent: Friday, June 17th, 11:21 PM
To: chris <[email protected]>
Subject: mosaic mind
Dear Chris,
I can see that you’re a musician. You have a beautiful bond with words and your email has quite shaken me since I read it this morning, sipping wine instead of coffee. My toasts burnt, and my eggs lacked salt, and I couldn’t care less because I was reading what you had to say to my long ass complaint email. I just wanted to answer your questions, call you a loser for hating coffee AND tea, mourn with you about the life we never got.
I don’t know. I just saw so much of myself in your email, and I couldn’t understand if I was happy or worried. My head is not a safe place, and it makes me sad that yours is just the same. But at the same time, it’s nice to know I’m not alone – that sounds selfish as fuck, and I apologize but not really. It’s just- I never met someone as intense as your writing made you feel and I’m excited because I’m unstable and sensitive and I feel so much all the time and I never know what to do with it, where all these emotions and thoughts should go, where to put them. Do you? Do you write songs about your anger, your sadness, your heartbreaks? What are your poems about? Would you ever draw me, pretty and miserable at a coffee shop?
I’m curious about you, Chris. What are you doing now, as I write this email and drink a cocktail Jiji made for me? Jiji is my roommate, do you remember her? Her girlfriend is over, and they were all lovey-dovey in my living room. I love them and I hate feeling single, so Jiji makes drinks for me as an apology. It’s getting late and I can’t sleep and I want to get drunk and I’m dying my hair. I’ll have purple hair in a few hours, and I want you to think about me when you see the colour. What is the colour of your hair, Chris? You never told me your favourite colour. You didn’t answer a lot of my questions, but I think I like it. It feels like I’ll learn more about you soon, on my own. Will you let me? I promise to keep your every secret if you keep mine. It’s just you and me and night confessions.
And I get you, reader. I get every single one of your demons. I get your sorrow and your fear and your frustrations. I want to go back all the time, I want to change things all the time, do better all the time, but I never could. I still can’t. I believe there’s no such thing as a time travel machine, but if there were, I still wouldn’t change a thing. I like to believe that that’s what we do when we die: we see all those paths we could’ve chosen instead, choose one of them, and live another life until we die again, and again, and again. It sounds better than rotting in the dirt forever, right?
But there’s no turning back now, Chris, and I think that’s what we need to come to terms with. We can’t change the past or make the ones who hurt us care about hurting us or grieve forever for the girls we used to be. And yeah, regretting is part of the journey, and grieving is part of being human, but we’ve got to choose what will hurt us and for how long. Maybe we don’t get over things ever, honestly, but we learn how to deal with them in a way that doesn’t make us bleed as much. I hope you can see that, too. I hope love keeps saving you. Doesn’t it save us all? Isn’t it what we live for? Love. Being loved. Loving things. Loving people. Falling in love. Loving art. Loving yourself. Do it for love, Chris, forever.
I have purple hair now. I look pretty. Different, but pretty. I look sadder in the mirror. Do you think I’m sad, Chris? I don’t know what to think of myself anymore. Am I supposed to be just a pretty face for the rest of my days? I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing and I just wanted someone to tell me what to do. Do you ever feel like that? Do you ever feel this desperate need to be understood, to be seen? I’m raw and naked and the claws inside my throat won’t let me scream, won’t ease up the grip on my neck. Don’t you think I’m a hypocrite now when I tried to give you a lecture just a few minutes ago? I guess I’m a fucking fraud.
I forgot to get drunk, and I can’t stop thinking. My head hurts. I’m still not wearing enough clothes to talk to you, but I’m home and my soul is already spread open for you anyway. I hope you don’t mind. There’s music playing now – Bloom by Glare. I’m terribly melancholic and I don’t know what happened to make me this sad on a Friday night. I really like you, Chris. I think talking to you helps me concentrate on what I’m feeling. It’s such a mess, the back of my mind, and I’m so lost. Sometimes I think I’ll feel this way forever.
I want to be so many things. I want to be sexy and powerful and independent. I want someone to take care of me and kiss my tears away and quiet my mind on days like this. I want to dance when no one is looking, and I want an audience to tell me how good I am. I want the comfort of my depression and I want to never feel this way ever again. I want to tell you all about the good parts of me, but I can’t see any of them now. I want to be so much, all the time, but I’m nothing at all.
Write me back. I like to read your mind.
Insanely,
Lix.
From: chris <[email protected]>
Sent: Monday, June 20th, 4:47 AM
To: lix <[email protected]>
Subject: lost cause
Dear Lix,
My favourite colour is blue.
You said you don’t know what to do with your feelings, but I think you’ve been doing a great job of explaining them to me. This is putting them somewhere, isn’t it? You can pour your thoughts and your feelings in here, I don’t mind. Whatever makes you feel better, Lixie. Whatever eases your heart and calms your mind. And besides, I like to know you feel comfortable enough to give such a huge part of your soul to me, even if I’m a stranger behind a screen.
And it’s so weird because you’re made of a different kind of stardust. I guess you were born from a different constellation, one yet to be named and discovered, and yet, I feel like I was meant to know you, for some reason. I never had someone who got me so intensely, and I guess that’s where this feeling’s coming from, so yeah… weird, weird thing. But good weird, yeah? Do you think so?
I need to wake up in an hour and couldn’t bring myself to close my eyes at all during the entire night, so I think I should answer some of your questions while I’m still standing. But honestly, there’s not much to talk about. I’m studying to be a teacher, but you know my true love is music. I have a small apartment I share with my two best friends, but we hardly see each other since we have different schedules. It sucks, honestly. I work at a shitty company in the afternoons, and I hate it more every day, but there’s not much I can do when I need to pay my bills.
When I’m home, I can’t sleep. Sometimes I try to study, sometimes I try to work on a song I never finished. I eat, and I shower, and I distract myself on the internet and with books and I never sleep. I need to wake up at 6. Should I try drinking tea, Lixie? Do you think that’d help? I think I’m a lost cause, but I’ll try to get better. God knows Binnie will kill me if I don’t. Binnie is my best friend, by the way; I think you’d like her. She would like you.
I’m exhausted. Tonight, I’m thinking about when I was younger and didn’t have to worry about much. I was happier. I don’t remember much, I wish I did, but I know that in a fucked up way I was happier. I remember I had this best friend called Lola, and she had all the toys I’ve ever wanted, and my parents couldn’t afford. Lola always let me play with them. If I’m honest, I don’t remember her face, but I’m still so fond of her. Isn’t it weird, Lixie? To be fond of someone you don’t even remember? Is this what we’re supposed to do for the rest of our lives — to long forever about the things we once had?
What is your favourite colour, Miss Sunshine? Do you drink every night? Do you think I’d recognize you in the crowd just by looking at your purple hair and remarkable soul? Do you think I should go blonde? Just a little change, since I’ve been the same for so long.
It’s really late and I don’t have the time to write much before waking up in an hour, so I’ll try to sleep a little bit. I promise to tell you more soon, yeah?
Write to me again. You’re too astonishing to swallow your mind.
Sincerely,
Chris.
From: lix <[email protected]>
Sent: Tuesday, June 21st, 9:42 PM
To: chris <[email protected]>
Subject: sleep better
Dear Blue,
You should sleep more and definitely earlier. What is it with your sleeping schedule? Insomnia? Do you have so much inside your head that you can’t find peace even in your sleep? Tell me whatever haunts you at night, Chris. Tell me what makes you frustrated and sad and painfully poetic. Tell me whatever you’d like. Share a little bit of your mind, sometimes.
But you know, your email got me thinking about everything. What were we before being 20 and miserable and impossibly tired? You said you don’t remember, but I remember it all too well. I remember following a butterfly through my garden, and I remember the first time I scrapped my knee when I was 3. I remember crying when I missed my mother when I was 13. I remember the first boy I ever liked, and I remember thinking I could never get over him because I loved him so much. I remember falling in love with my first girl when I was 16. She was kind and sweet and she was the first one who truly broke me.
I remember thinking I could change my life for the first time when I was 18. It felt like heaven leaving my home for the first time. I remember regretting it not much later, so I called my mum, and she talked me down until I realized no one else would be an adult for me. I had so many dreams and goals and I wanted so much. I still do, but it’s not the same.
I still love butterflies and I miss my mother every day and I’m still clumsy and I get myself hurt more often than I like to admit. I still fall in love till it hurts and bleeds and fades in time. I’m still a believer, even though I’m not sure why. I’m trying so hard every day, and sometimes that’s all I got. It must be enough somehow, right? I still feel everything I felt before, but it’s not the same because I’m older and a bit wiser and life is not gonna be magical forever. It hurts and I cry about it every other day and I still romanticize life as much as I can so it’s a bit more bearable to go through another week, but I’m not the same girl I was then. This is who I am now. We all bleed a little in order to exist, don’t we? It’s kinda part of the deal.
You know, I think you’re the extraordinary one between the two of us. You’re so many things, Chris. You’re so much, even when you think you’re nothing. You’re a lot. And that’s a good thing, don’t read it wrong. And I don’t know if you would recognize me in the crowd, but I wish I could recognize you. Dye your hair, it’s a nice change sometimes. Have a drink with me tonight, if you may. I will drink wine – rosé, today; something fancy and sweet that Jiji’s girlfriend gifted me for disturbing my sleep on Sunday.
My favourite colour is red.
Share your midnights with me, Miss Blue. Maybe you’ll sleep better.
Lixie.
From: chris <[email protected]>
Sent: Thursday, June 24th, 1:32 AM
To: lix <[email protected]>
Subject: the fall of a knight
Dear Red,
How come we love damage so much?
Some days, when I feel tired and overwhelmed, I keep thinking horrible things. Do you ever feel unlovable? Do you ever wonder if people fucked your head so badly, you’ll never be able to get over whatever the hell went wrong with your life? And I feel like so many things went wrong, Lix. Everything feels like too much right now and what am I supposed to do with it? There’s so much, so much all the time and I’m so so so tired.
Sometimes I feel like I got over what happened to me when I was younger, you know? I’m 23 now, I don’t need to grieve forever for who I could’ve been, what could’ve happened. It’s always the modal verbs. Life is so shitty sometimes, Lixie, and what am I supposed to do with it? Just get over it? Mourn forever?
My mum called me today and she told me horrible things. We never had a good relationship, honestly. She neglected me for most of my life, and I learned how to deal with it as I got older, but sometimes I can’t stop thinking like… what did I ever do to be so despised by someone who was supposed to love me? And if my mum, the one people think should love me the most in the world, does not love me for who I am, who will?
I don’t believe I’m unlovable most of the time — except on nights like this. On these nights, life just comes crashing at me so powerfully that I don’t really know what to do but feel it. And it really hurts, Lix. I pretend it doesn’t every day, I pretend I don’t care and that I’m fine, but I just… I can’t really let it go. I’ve been trying for years now, but I can’t. And it makes me angry and sad and so miserable. Why would she do this to me? Am I such a terrible daughter that I have to listen to her wishing I have a bad life? And for what? Just for her to feel satisfied if I ever go back home asking for help? I hate her so much, and yet, I love her with everything I have. I miss something she never gave me and I’m the happiest when she’s far away from me.
I’m so tired, Lix. I’m drinking red wine tonight. Will you drink with me? I don’t really like alcohol, but today I felt like I needed something to help me sleep earlier. I’m dying my hair, by the way. My scalp is burning, but Minnie said it’s normal. Should I trust her? She’s mischief incarnated. I have curly hair, by the way; do you think it’ll all fall off? Oh, man, that’d be bad. I don’t think I’d be one of the hotties if I ever went bald.
I really like you, Lix. You and your love for butterflies and your purple hair and beautiful soul. I’m sharing my midnights with you. Please, be softer with me for a few days, if I’m not asking too much. I’m afraid to sleep today. Do you think I’ll fight with her in my sleep? I can’t help but think of everything I’ve been through every time I close my eyes. I wish the wound would close for once. I wish I didn’t regret her as much as I do. What do I even regret, anyway, when being born was never my choice?
It really hurts, you know. I wish I knew why she would do this all to me, and sometimes I wonder if she’s even aware of how much of me she destroyed. Sometimes I’m at peace with the thought she doesn’t care, and sometimes it feels like a stab in my heart. Sometimes I feel like I should fight back, hit her where I know it hurts, make her bleed just as much as she made me, and sometimes I know it’s not worth it.
I’m exhausted. I need so many things. I want so many things. I want to stop thinking about what could’ve happened. I want to lay down somewhere and feel like I’m home. I need to scream my heart to the moon, and I need her to hold me inside her arms, kiss my eyelids with frozen tenderness. I need the night sky to swallow me whole and spit me out again. I need the comfort of platonic love, and I need someone to kiss my sorrow away. I need to create something horrible, and I need it to be beautiful. I need to untangle my chaos, and I need to be destroyed by it.
I’m still full of a childish rage I can’t quite tame. Now I just scream in silence and lose some weight. I bite my nails all the time, and my skin is bruised everywhere. I’m never fully honest with myself or others, nobody really cares. I’m afraid I’ll never leave this place because I’m constantly reminded I’m stuck in grief. It’s my curse, the one I was born with. I believe I was born with a lot, and that’s why my shoulders are so heavy all the time.
I don’t know how to close my wounds, and I think I got used to feeling hopeless. I worry too much about people. I worry too little about myself. I hate my mind. I hate being stuck inside it. My brain can’t stop, and I feel like crying. I won’t, I can’t. I don’t think I know how to anymore. I need to kiss the floor I stepped in when I first broke down. I need to break free, and I need to hide forever. I need to curse myself to death, and I need to hug my demons with grace. I need to forgive. I need to never forget.
I can’t go back now. I don’t think I want to. I think I needed to leave myself behind to find out where I stand. I think I’m losing myself every day just to find who I am all over again. I don’t know. It’s hard, but I know I can get through it. Do you get me, Lix? I don’t know what I’m talking about anymore because I’m sleepy and a bit drunk and I wish I could touch your purple hair with the tip of my fingers.
I’m a mess. Forgive me just this once. I don’t think I ever talked so much and detailed about myself to someone who’s not my therapist, so… yeah. I’m sorry, I guess. But yeah. I like you, Red. Little Miss Sunshine. Lix. Lixie. Purple girl. I wish we had better days, better feelings, better lives. I hope you’ll stay. Talking to me, you know? Telling me all the terrors and all the joys you want to give me. Would you ever sit in silence with me on a night like this? Would my fear and my thoughts and my sorrow scare you away?
I think I’d recognize you, Lix, in the middle of a crowd. You’re too you to go unnoticed.
Chris.
From: lix <[email protected]>
Sent: Saturday, June 26th, 12:00 PM
To: chris <[email protected]>
Subject: loose endings
Dearest,
I believe there’s nothing as devastating as loving someone, and you’re so full of love. You’re made of sweet words and gentle caresses and poems, and you love too much, too deeply, too consuming, and I guess that’s why your heart aches so much. To love is to bleed, I guess.
But it pains me, reader, to know that you suffer so much. I can’t really tell you I fully get what you’re feeling, but I understand the doubt of loving your parent. It’s a journey to understand that you’re on your own, and nothing will ever change that. No one can make choices for you, my dear, so do them as you wish. It’s your life to control, it always will be.
I’ll be gentle with you tonight – every night, if you wish –, but I need you to understand that there are some things that we just need to let go, or they’ll hurt us forever. And maybe it will hurt you forever, but with less intensity, once you see there’s no problem in doing your thing on your own, even if your mother dislikes or wishes different things for you. She’s bitter and terrible, and you’re not. You’re so kind, Chris, so dear, so you. I’ll have to start to use your name as a compliment when I can’t find a word strong enough to describe gentleness and kindness and caring. I’ll just say “be like Chris”, and when they ask me who you are, I’ll just answer “a blessing.”
Don’t ever feel sorry for finding your kind of peace. Don’t feel ashamed to seek love, or acceptance, or understanding. There’s not enough time in our lives to be ashamed of things that matter. I admire you so much, Chris, do you know that? And it’s insane because we’ve known each other for such a short time, but I can’t stop thinking that you can’t be real. You have this type of calmness, of quietude, like a whisper in the dark. Lovely, lovely girl, how I wish I could quiet your mind.
The thing about growing up is that you never know where it’ll lead you. Isn’t it just life, though? I’m not sure. I know nothing most of the time, but it’s fun to pretend I do. I’m always trying to be something more than human, and maybe that’s why I write. I’m always trying to do better, be better, just to try harder the next day, and I don’t always succeed. I’m cutting myself open for you, and I hope you won’t run away from me just because I’m being more of myself with you than I am with anyone else. And you’re just like me, Chris. You fear and you bleed and you scream and you try and try and try, and you’re doing so good. I wish I could be more like you every time you write to me. Do you wish you could be more like me?
I don’t know, Chris. I know nothing. Do things for yourself, once in a while. You deserve happiness just as much as anyone else. Even more – and I guess that’s the only thing I’m certain of.
Recognize me in a crowd, if you may. I think I’d know you in the dark, with a single touch.
Love,
Felice.
From: chris <[email protected]>
Sent: Thursday, July 1st, 8:22 PM
To: lix <[email protected]>
Subject: to touch the sun
Sunshine,
Sometimes I think I was born to meet you. You make me want to do better, be better, to try. I do wish I could be more like you, and maybe that’s why we click so well; we’re missing pieces of the same puzzle. We just fit; no explanation needed. Maybe we’ve been connected since I was born, and I’ve just been waiting to find you, to talk to you.
This sounds like a shitty love confession, but I just appreciate you. I've been trying to find the words to write to you for days now, and it still doesn’t feel like enough, but yeah. Here I am. What am I even saying, love, stop reading when you start getting bored. There's nothing important getting written here. Sorry. And thank you.
I’m in a room full of people and I can’t find you anywhere. Maybe another day, when I'm not expecting to bump into you while trying to take the tube. Maybe I'll know, then. Will you?
Love,
Chris.
From: lix <[email protected]>
Sent: Friday, July 2nd, 7:27 PM
To: chris <[email protected]>
Subject: missing lines
Dear,
You don’t have to thank me or find the right words to talk to me. Just talk to me, however you’d like. I like it when you ramble and write without a care in the world.
You know, Chris, maybe we really were supposed to find each other. It’s the only explanation I can find to be as fond as I am of you.
I’m on the bus now, going home, and I still couldn’t find you. Maybe tomorrow, when I’m not trying to find your face in the empty seats in front of me. I’d know you, Chris. I’d know you anywhere.
Love,
Lix.
From: chris <[email protected] >
Sent: Saturday, July 10th, 9:09 PM
To: lix <[email protected]>
Subject: nocturnal soul
Darling,
It’s been a crazy start of a month, this one. I’ve been having terrible moments and the best days of my life at the same time. I’ve been going out more, cause Binnie said I looked tired and depressed and “I need to take care of you or you’ll die and I can’t let that happen, I can’t-” or whatever. She’s just as dramatic as the girl she’s in love with now. They kinda fit together, you know. She makes Binnie happy, so I guess I’m happy as well.
But for me, Lixie, for me life’s been a rollercoaster. It’s kinda nice to find myself on my own, without the weight of wondering what people will think, what my parents will think. It’s not as hard as I thought. It’s really nice, actually. There are so many things I want to do that I’ve been postponing because I don’t have the time or the energy or the courage. I want to lose myself without the fear of never finding me again. I want to burst into flames, to touch the bottom of the sea, to fear to love to lose to touch everything I see, to exist.
I’ve been stuck for so long because I was so afraid of changes, but they’re inevitable. I think you’re the one who made me this brave, love. You made me want a kind of freedom that I’ve longed for a long time. You’re full of youth and passion and raw emotions and feelings and you’re kind and smart and lovely and genuine. You’re so much, love, so many things. I want to be better, with you.
I’m going out tonight, to meet some friends. My hair is orange now, Minnie dyed it last night. It’s too bright, but it kinda fits me. I don’t know, I’ve been liking myself more these days. It’s weird and it’s amazing and I wish I could see the colour of your eyes tonight. I’ll drink to it – maybe then the universe will take my wish.
Find me, love. I’m waiting for you.
Love,
Chris.
From: lix <[email protected]>
Sent: Sunday, July 11th, 6:05 PM
To: chris <[email protected]>
Subject: what we find in the dark
Sweet girl,
I’m still drunk on cocktails and ecstasy and the feeling of soft hair brushing against my cheek. How fun it is to be alive and stepping uncoordinatedly around my living room, trying to drown in the scent stuck on the tip of my nose. I smell like my perfume, and sweat, and the last drink I swallowed, and you. How fun it is, Chris, to be smelling like you on a Sunday morning.
I don’t understand whatever the fuck the universe is doing to us, but the last thing I expected was to meet you at a bar, bright orange hair, white skirt and dimpled smile, all cute and surprised to see my flower-hair and dumbstruck face. You looked at me, and your eyes did this thing I can’t really describe, and you touched my hand, and for some reason, I knew even before Jinnie told me your name. What a fucked up way to let me know you were closer than ever this whole time, being best friends with my best friend’s new girlfriend.
“Hi,” I said, because what else was I supposed to say? I was a mess, and you were still holding my hand, and I was afraid to say something stupid like you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, or it’s you it’s you it’s you.
“Hi,” you said, and you smiled, and I think my world fell apart a little and came back together at the same time. “I’m-”
“Chris, yeah?” I asked, dumbly and still in awe, wondering what you were thinking, did you know who I was, did you know my name, did you-
“Yes,” you said. And then, to give the final blow, “Hello, Lixie.”
Dear, dear, Chris. I don’t know what to do with you. I don’t know how to feel, I don’t know what to think, I don’t know anything, I just want to see you again. I want you to hold my hand in a crowded bar and dance with me to a song we never heard before. I want you to breathe your thoughts in my ear. I want you to pull me closer when a stranger brushes past me, I want you to drown me in your perfume again.
I don’t know, Chris, what the fuck. What the fuck, love. I don’t know. I’m drunk and sleepy and I need you to talk to me because I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Tell me what to do. Tell me how you feel. Do you think I’m a mess, and that you should step back before you’re hit too hard to stand? Do you want to call me Lix, and Lixie, and Darling again?
I don’t know, Chris. I know nothing.
But now I know you.
Talk to me, love, talk to me. I’m dying.
Desperately,
Lixie.
From: chris <[email protected]>
Sent: Sunday, July 11th, 2:44 PM
To: lix <[email protected]>
Subject: crashing waves
Baby honey,
I found out you have freckles and I’ve been completely inconsolable ever since. Your friend, Jinnie – the Hyunjinnie that Bin couldn’t stop talkin' about, how ironic is that? – is still here, sipping coffee while Binnie kisses her shoulder, and she’s looking at me like she knows all of my secrets. Earlier, when we came back still dizzy with alcohol, she smirked, laughed, said she couldn’t believe I was the Chris her friend Felice wouldn’t stop talking about.
“Will you call her?” she asked me, and Binnie tried to steady their steps, and I blinked and realized I never asked for your number. And she laughed, said, “I’m her best friend, you know,” said, “just ask me.”
Then she disappeared into the bedroom with her girlfriend, and she’s the meanest girl I’ve ever met. She’s also really nice. I don’t know what to do, Lix. Should I ask her for your number? Is that what you want? I don’t know where we stand now, I don’t know how far is far enough, and I just miss you so much I think I’m going crazy. I can’t stop missing you now that I touched you, and now that I know you have little stars across your face, and now that lavender is never going to smell the same.
I don’t know, I just need to hear from you now, sober and pretty, that you still want to see me. Do you, honey? Would you ever let me take your hand on sidewalks?
Tell me, Lix. I promise to do whatever you want.
Love,
Chris.
From: lix <[email protected]>
Sent: Friday, August 22nd, 9:29 PM
To: chris <[email protected]>
Subject: to kiss a god
My love,
I'm obsessed with you, and I’m scared we’ll never be the same again. And I know I keep telling you to embrace changes with grace or whatever bullshit I pretend to know, but you’re too important, too dear, too much for me to lose because of something I did myself. I don’t know, Chris, I just- I like you so much. I like you so much I think I’m going crazy all the time because I can’t stop thinking about you.
I don’t think I’ve ever been a lover material or whatever. I’m a great friend and I’m funny and pretty and people flirt with me, but they never see me. I’ve always been better as a friend than anything else, and that’s fine for my friends, but I don’t know. I think it fucked me up a bit, you know? I’m not unlovable, that I know for sure, but I can’t really imagine people falling in love with me. I’m pretty and interesting and fun, but am I good enough to be a lover?
I don’t know what I’m saying anymore, but the thing is that my hair is black now and I’m falling in love with you. I don’t know how and I don’t know how to stop it, but I know it’s happening and it’s the scariest thing that happened to me this year. I stripped my soul to you, and that’s what scares me. I’m a fucking tragedy, Chris. I’m a mess and I hurt people all the time, and I can’t control what I feel and holding my hand will be like jumping in the eye of a hurricane. I’m constantly tired and life feels heavy all the time and I just want to make art and you, at the end of the day, to kiss my face and tell me it’ll be fine.
Jesus, this is terrible. I shouldn’t send you this but I will because I can’t keep feeling like this and I’m sure I’ll just rip my heart out for you the next time we see each other and I’m too much of a coward to do it while looking into your eyes. Your beautiful, warm and kind eyes. What do we do now, Chris? I’m so scared. I’m terrified. I feel this urge to leave before you leave me and I don’t know if I’ll fuck this up in the future or if we’ll realize it was all a mistake. I try to be tough all the time, but the truth is that I just want the kind of love that’ll make me feel safe – I don’t want to have to worry all the time or think there’s something in me that has to be fixed. I just want to be loved and love someone back. I just want to cuddle with you at the weekends and watch silly romcoms. I want to kiss your nose and your cheeks and hold your hand in crowded streets.
I want to get drunk with you in something other than wine. I’m already more yours than I’ve ever been anyone else’s.
I’m sorry.
Love,
Lix.
From: chris <[email protected]>
Sent: Saturday, September 2nd, 3:33 AM
To: lix <[email protected]>
Subject: the tide
Darling dearest,
How tragic it is to be young and in love in this chaotic world of misery. Sometimes I look at you and I see my entire heart beating above the light brightness of your cheeks, and I get this insane rush of intensity because I like you so much. I like you so much it’s probably unhealthy, but I can’t stop it now.
Yesterday, when I opened the door for you and you kissed me silly on my couch, I understood what you meant when you told me you were scared. Sometimes I think I’m scared of the way I feel for you because it’s news to me to be so deeply devoted to someone – and to have someone to like me back. Sometimes I know I’m scared of what’s in it for us. My life’s a mess. My family’s a mess, I’m a complete muddle of sadness and grief, and I don’t know what I’m doing most of the time. We’re so young, and life is shitty most of the time, and our lives are not gonna be the same forever. We’ll have different schedules and different jobs and different routines and you still don’t know I pace around my room a lot when I can’t sleep, and that I can’t live without this specific blanket or I’ll die, and you don’t know that I still cry about things that I never got any closure because healing just doesn’t happens sometimes.
I’m terrified you’re gonna wake up one morning and look at me in the eyes and see that I’m way too much work for you and then leave me. I’m scared all the time, and I’m tired and I’m constantly processing emotions because I can’t keep up with how fast my brain works, and still – still, I want to kiss your eyelids and make you smoothies in the mornings. You’re sleeping by my side, and you’re so warm, naked body pressing against mine everywhere, so good, so right, and I know there’s nothing I want more than to stay with you like this forever.
My lips are still red and swollen, and my legs are still trembling, and I can’t get over the feeling of you laughing against my lips, a veil of smooth skin covering me, kissing my face and whispering sweet things in my ear, hands pushing my legs apart, lips and tongue warm, so warm baby, so good, I can’t get over it – can’t get over how you woke me up later, pulling me closer to your chest, hand sneaking between my thighs, whispered, “can I touch you, love, can I-”, and can’t get over how your body trembled when I turned around, gripped your hair, said, “sit on me, baby, I want you to-”
God. You make me want to print the sheets in honey all the time. I can’t get enough. I don’t think I could run away from this, even if I wanted to.
I’m yours, Lixie. There’s no running away from that.
Love,
Chris.
From: lix <[email protected]>
Sent: Tuesday, October 15th, 2:56 AM
To: chris <[email protected]>
Subject: cursed with rage
My girl,
Do you ever feel like you don’t fit anywhere, no matter how hard you try?
I have these terrible, terrible days when I can’t feel anything but anger. It’s like there’s something stuck in my throat, holding me hostage, keeping me away from screaming my lungs out. Maybe I was born to be angry. Born to be this destructive little thing, cursed with this kind of rage that awaits quietly, hoping I love something just so it can destroy it right at my face, shatter it with bare hands.
People make me feel like I'm lying all the time. Maybe I’m just a fucking liar and I can’t see that because I’m used to fucking things up for myself and now it’s just a habit. I’m supposed to be smiley and kind and caring and sweet and good. I’m always supposed to be good. I can’t scream or hate or drip poison over people or make mistakes because I’m good. I’m always good. And that’s why I’m such a lie. I’m supposed to be a sweet dream, but at the end of the day, I’m just a nightmare. I lie, and I hate people I shouldn’t, and I’m jealous because everyone around me seems so happy and I’m constantly falling apart, and my life is a fucking mess and there’s no way I could fix it.
And somehow, you’re still here, sleeping in my bed, making me juice in the morning because you think I shouldn’t drink coffee if I don’t really like it, and waiting for me to go to uni, then coming back if I ask you to. And I know you would kiss my tears away if you looked at me right now, would smell my hair because you’re obsessed with the scent of my shampoo, then you would ask me if I wanted to talk – and if I didn’t, you’d hold me until I felt better. You’re my sunshine, Chris, and I’m nothing but pouring rain.
I guess I’m just a fraud, in the end. People think they know me, and I like to pretend they do so I don’t have to think about how fucking scary it is to rub my heart raw, and maybe that’s why I feel better when I deal with things alone. How could I be anything but a copy of everyone I’ve ever met in my life? I’m not unique, I’m not a saint, and I wish I was more of a sinner. I don’t want to be a girl; I want to be a god. I don’t need to be saved; I need to be seen. It’s like I’m constantly begging for attention and I hate it. This need to be something more than flesh and bones and feverish blood is so consuming that it makes me sick with want. I hate all this, Chris, and I’m so angry I wish I could cough my heart out and never swallow it again.
I’m fucking 20. I’m supposed to get drunk on dubious parties and kiss you stupid in a dark room. I’m not supposed to be feeling down and pissed on a Thursday afternoon. I’m not easy on myself, I know half of it is my own fault, but I don’t know how to stop it. I’ve been fighting against myself for so long, how many years do I have to waste being consumed by sadness and the monster that lives inside my head?
I’m not perfect, Chris. I never will be.
Do you want me, still?
Love,
Lix.
From: chris <[email protected]>
Sent: Thursday, October 17th, 4:05 AM
To: lix <[email protected]>
Subject: being a big girl
Baby,
I do feel like I don’t fit anywhere sometimes, but lately, I’ve been thinking I fit beside you.
The thing about memories is that we’re made of them, the good and the bad, the pain and the joy. Everything is up our heads somewhere, just waiting for something to trigger it – and life is such a minefield. We’re supposed to make people happy because men said we were born for this – to give birth, and do housework, and be anything but human. But it doesn’t matter, Lixie, baby. You shouldn’t be anything but yourself, and it’s not up to you to make people love you all the time. You’re allowed to feel, you know. You can do anything you want, and you know it.
But yeah, I get the anger and the sorrow and the jealousy and everything you said. I think everyone feels like that, but they’re just not talking about it – because we’re supposed to be happy all the time or whatever. Stupid. I feel like people always expect something from me, and the truth is that I’m tattered and bruised and don’t know what all of this means when I’m just a girl. I don’t think my friends ever saw me cry, or scream, or be anything but good. I’m a listener, I’m a problem solver, I’m a leader, I’m whatever the fuck I think people want from me, and who am I to complain when this is what I asked for? I wanted to be loved for so long for someone other than the tiny part of myself that still believed in me, I wanted to be wanted, needed, reliable, and I am. I’m all of this now, Lix, I’m everything I asked for. But I’m so so so lonely. And that I didn’t ask for, but it came to me as a consequence.
And I’m proud of myself for being kind and understanding when I never had that growing up, but am I supposed to be this lost when I’m surrounded by friends? I thought for so long that I was too good to be alone, too good to never find romantic love, and my friends kept telling me I was too closed off to let people in, but I don’t think that’s true. I knew my limits, and I knew what I liked, and my peace was my priority for so long that I couldn’t let myself get lost in something that wasn’t worth it. And again, how could I complain when I asked for this? If I showed people I was weak, or scared, or solitaire, they would drown me out. I have to show them why I’m so full of whatever I stand for, because in the end, this is how I chose to be, and to change means to be confused, and I can’t be anything but tough. It’s tiring, love, and that’s why I scream in silence. No one ever listens, and that was my choice as well.
But I don’t feel like I need to hide from you. I’ve never felt this comfortable in my life, and what is that supposed to mean for my life, Lix? You told me once you felt like running away sometimes, and I feel the same. I’ve been writing about love for so long because I know how I want to be loved, but I’m not sure if I know how to let someone give me what I’ve been craving for as long as I can remember. You’re so good to me, and your hair smells like lavender and home and love, and I could spend the rest of my days making you smoothies and eating your brownies on your kitchen counter.
I’m a mess, and you still want me. I want you too – terrors, thunderous nights and everything.
I’m not perfect either, Lix. I don’t expect you to be.
Love,
Chris.
From: lix <[email protected]>
Sent: Wednesday, November 23rd, 4:10 PM
To: chris <[email protected]>
Subject: ya’aburnee
My Chris,
It’s a Sunday afternoon and you decided you wanted to try a new recipe. You’re smiling at me now, saying you made a mess on the sink. I laugh, and you roll your eyes, call me silly, and I don’t even care because happiness looks so good on you. You turn back, but I can still see your face. You’re humming to this song you like that I still don’t know the lyrics to, and I still can see your profile – dimples showing because of your pursed lips, a curl resting against your cheek. The evening sun is invading my house, covering you in a veil of gold and beauty, and you look majestic. I guess the sun always shines brighter on your side of the world.
I think I want you for the rest of my life. I don’t know much about life and time and forevers, but I know I’ve never felt so at peace in my life. If there’s any chance of eternity, I want to spend it with you. I want your whining in the mornings and your kisses when I leave, and your clothes inside my closet and all the I love you’s that we keep. I want to drink with you on Fridays, and I want your laugh in my mouth when I joke with you.
My sweet girl, how I long for you. I could spend the rest of my days worshipping your soul. Maybe I will, if you let me.
You’re dancing now, just slightly because you think I won’t notice if you’re careful enough. I want to tease you about it, but I won’t. There’s something sacred about the way you exist, and I can’t quite understand the depth of my devotion for you yet. I want to take your hand and spin you around in my small kitchen, put my hand on your hip so you don’t get hurt if we bump into something. I want to kiss your laugh away, want your hands in my hair, my cheek, my soul. I want to hear you sing for me so I can say sweet things to see you blush.
I think the world is ending and we’re the only ones still dancing while it falls apart. There’s so much happening all the time, and people hurt us, and there’s little we can do to avoid being swallowed by earth, and still, in the middle of the chaos, is your hand that I want to hold. I want to kiss your nose when you get home, give you everything I’m made of, everything I could ever become, anything you want. I’d let the blade against my throat split it open just so I could bleed my love for you, unstoppable, inescapable, until there’s nothing left but the lingering feeling of you.
You’re still humming in the kitchen, swaying around like there’s no one else in the world but you and me. Outside, the world is burning itself to the ground. Let me peel an orange for you.
Love,
Lix.
From: chris <[email protected]>
Sent: Saturday, December 14th, 5:30 PM
To: lix <[email protected]>
Subject: is there somewhere you can meet me?
My dear Felice,
It’s December and I’ve been feeling a bit lost. I came home to see my family for a few days, and I miss you like crazy, but things are… quiet here. Mum is still mum, and my sister is still annoying (and secretly the sweetest), and Dad is never around, and everything is quieter than ever. It’s like we’re a bunch of strangers, somehow. We sit to eat, and we small talk, and Mum is mean sometimes, and my sister still fights her whenever she can – she’s always been braver than me, and that didn’t change at all. I guess blood doesn’t mean everything, after all.
I can’t sleep tonight, and it’s kinda cold here but I left my window open. The wind scratching my skin makes me feel alive for some reason. I want to leave and never come back to this house, but I’m not sure if I can. There are so many memories here, bad and good and everything in between. I keep looking through my old camera, trying to take the paths I used to when I was younger, trying to remember what I’d be doing right now as a teenager, as a child. It all ends at some point, not a single clue about when things went wrong, or if things were ever good in the first place.
I felt sad every time I came here, but now I don’t know anymore. For once, I can picture myself coming back. Not to my parents, but to you. If we ever got tired of our busy lives and stupid capitalism and decided to live in a small place around here where we could have a garden and a small farm and fresh bread every morning. We’d smile to our neighbours, know everyone’s names. You’d spend your days baking brownies, and taking care of the flowers and writing beautiful proses. I’d take care of the animals and sell milk and eggs and fresh grapes for good wine, we’d come back home to each other at the end of the day, sit in the backyard and listen to good music and drink all the wines you wanted. You’d smile at me, ask me Can I have this dance? and I’d laugh at your face, accept your hand because I can’t say no to you, then we’d dance till the sun went down.
At night, we’d shower and you’d kiss me and I’d take your dress off, lay you in our bed, kiss your lips and your nose and your chin and your neck and your nipples. You’d arch beautifully, whisper my name in the dark, and I’d kiss you some more, a bit lower, your stomach, the tattoo on your hip, your thighs, then in between. You’d grip my hair so tight, sing sweet melodies for only me to hear, squeeze your legs, take what you need, beg to God, to the saints, and to me.
I’d give you anything. I’d paint your freckles in the sky, sit with you in silence on a mournful night. I’d give you my wild, give you a child. I’d give you my all, Lixie, and then some. I just want to get lost in the corner of your mouth for the rest of my life. I guess that’s the most romantic thing I could ever write to you.
Find me again but in the quietness of midnight this time. I can’t bear a moment longer without drowning in you.
Yours,
Chris.
From: lix <[email protected]>
Sent: Friday, December 31st, 11:21 PM
To: chris <[email protected]>
Subject: okay.
Dearest creature,
We fought for the first time this morning and I tried to break up with you and you said no. I don’t really know how it happened, I just know we were stressed out and I was being a bitch and you said something that triggered something in me and I answered with something that triggered you and then we were fighting. I also don’t know when anger became fear and anxiety and it turned into this big mess I wasn’t sure we could ever fix.
You looked so sad, so disappointed, and I thought you wouldn’t want me anymore after you found out I wasn’t really a good person, and I just needed to break your heart before you’d break mine, so I just said we should break up already because we’d never work out anyway. I’ve never seen that expression on your face: the hurt, the fear, something so raw, so open and crude, and I just knew then that there was no turning back. You’d leave me, walk through that door and never come back, take my heart and my life and my soul with you and I’d never ever be the same because how could I ever recover from being loved by you?
But then you blinked past the haze, looked at me, really looked at me with something more than just your eyes, and you didn’t move, didn’t say a thing. We stood there in silence, looking at each other, tagging emotions, processing.
“You won’t break up with me,” you said, and I frowned, not knowing if you were fighting me or trying to change my mind.
“What do you even want for me, Chris?” I asked, suddenly hurt and angry all over again because what the fuck were we doing, what did you want me to say, what were we supposed to do, what-
“Everything,” you said. “I want your everything, Lix, and that’s why you won’t break up with me. Come sit.”
I did. I sat by your side on our couch, arms tight around myself, trying to protect me from whatever would be the end of that conversation, whatever you would say to break me. You said you wanted me and I was still afraid of what we’d become after this. Did I finally fuck us up? Did I hurt you too badly, too deeply for you to truly forgive me?
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” you asked. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, trying to organize my thoughts, my feelings, but everything felt all over the place and I didn’t know what to do with it, didn’t know how to tell you I couldn’t quite explain that my mind was being loud and mean and I was scared about so many things at once. But you knew, of course you knew, because you finally touched me, held my hand, told me to breathe, baby, you’re alright, we’re just talking, we’re just-
“I’m scared,” I said. You hummed to show me you were listening because I still couldn’t open my eyes to look at you. I said, “I’m scared we’ll fuck this up. Aren’t you scared?”
You touched my cheek, my jaw, tilted my head until I opened my eyes to look at you. You gave me that sad smile I hate, and I understood. You said, “I’m always scared, Lix,” and you caressed my cheek like you were saying goodbye, and I’ve never felt more vulnerable in my life. “But I love you and I don’t want to lose you.”
I wanted to cry and scream and call you stupid because how could you say that, Chris? How could you tell me you love me, how could you want me, how could you forgive me when I was such a mess. I couldn’t understand, it didn’t make sense, and you were looking at me like all the answers you needed were right at your face.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Chris, you don’t,” I said, trying to put some sense into you, trying to make you see it wasn’t worth it, I wasn’t worth it. “You’ll understand later that I’m no good, and that I fuck up a lot and I’ll feel trapped and make you leave me because that’s what happens with me. I can’t give you peace, Chris, I could never give you that because I’m fucked in the head. And one day we’ll wake up and realize we want different things and leave anyway.”
“You for sure think a lot,” you said. You silly, silly woman. I can’t believe you, Chris.
“I know,” I said, still staring at you, trying to figure out what the hell was going through your mind. “That’s it?”
“I’m fucked up too, you know. We could fight tomorrow for something completely different that I said because I was overwhelmed and tired and I couldn’t control my words,” you pulled me closer, kissed my nose, my mouth, my eyelids.
“I know,” I repeated, still confused, still trying to figure you out, what you wanted, what you were trying to prove.
“I don’t think I deserve you.”
“You do,” I said breathlessly with the kisses on my mouth. “I don’t deserve you.”
“You do,” you said, smiled in my mouth, kissed me again, said, “I guess we’re even.”
I laughed a wounded thing, brushed your hair out of your face, pressed my forehead against yours. I mumbled in your mouth, a small, fragile thing, “We’ll ruin each other forever.”
You pulled away, held my hands, kissed my knuckles like I deserved to be loved and I caught myself wanting to believe in it. Your eyes found mine, soft at the edges, but shining with something close to the devotion I leak for you.
“Okay,” you said.
I blinked twice, frowned, saw you smiling and couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled through my throat. You laughed with me, tilted your head like a puppy, fingers caressing my skin. I loved you so intensely I couldn’t help the tears that streamed down my face.
“Okay,” I laughed again, said, “Okay.”
You kissed me again and for once I didn’t feel all over the place.
It’s almost midnight and you’re laughing with our friends, trying not to get drunk because I whispered dirty things in your ear earlier. You’re smiling so much, having fun with Innie’s whimpering about a drunk Minnie and Binnie’s gagging sounds whenever Min kisses Jiji like she wants to eat her alive right in front of us. When you’re happy like this, having fun with our family, fitting so well inside this place we call ours, I can’t see how I could ever exist if you weren’t around. I don’t care if I sound crazy, because the truth is this. I’m dying to kiss your mouth and that’s what I’m going to do now.
Happy New Year, my love. My sweet baby. My girlfriend. My future wife.
I was born to love you.
Yours,
Lix.