Write a Love Letter

“First, I put on some Johnny Mathis music, dribbled the perfume Obsession on my neck and lit the only candle I could find: a thin green birthday candle, which I wedged into a piece of seven-grain bread. Then I closed my eyes, hummed along with “Chances Are” and tried to remember the things I loved about myself. I felt as if I were wearing high heels I could barely walk in. [...] My hand was sweaty as I picked up my favourite pen. I wrote, “Dear Deborah, I admire the way you help other people. I know how hard you try and how much you worry about being good enough. Deborah, you are a good person. Yours, D.” I read the letter and frowned. It sounded like the Boy Scout Pledge meets Co-Dependents Anonymous.”

“I wrote him the love letter the summer of our junior year. I don’t remember it being sappy. It was handwritten—in pencil, because the permanent nature of pens stressed me out—on white, lined paper, and folded into a tiny square. The plan was to slip it into his locker during lunch. But I didn’t want to think about what came after. What if he doesn’t say anything? What if he does say something and it’s a rejection? Or even worse, what if he does say something, and it’s that he reciprocates?”