Dear *Marcus,

You probably figured out I’m dyslexic.

It’s a hindrance when you’re a writer – and when you want to get a point across.

Last August, after ten days of intense anxiety, I wrote you a seventeen-page letter. In a journal. So, a book.

I wrote you a book.

In hindsight, I should’ve taken the book home to ponder whether this was an SMRT move. And proofread my illegible scrawl. Erratic spelling. Non-journalist grammar. Delete repeated, repeated words. And edit those seventeen pages into three.

However, stress equals babble. And semi-hasty, premeditated decisions.

Once written, I wove through the streets and I left the book at your relatives’ place. My stomach twisted into knots when I knocked on the door. I wondered, should I pass them the book without a word and slink into the bushes ala Homer Simpson? Or cut my losses. Just leave the journal on the doorstep and Forrest Gump-it to my vehicle?

I knocked again. Hooray for heroism! Or stupidity! Still, no answer.

Then, a-ha, the mailbox. In went the two envelopes. One with the book. The other with a Wunderbar. Yes, a Wunderbar. Maybe you remember the reason, maybe you don’t. Maybe it melted from the heat, maybe it attracted vermin.

But Book-Drop 2018 wasn’t a “Well” –dust off the hands– “it’s done,” and skip-away moment.

Before I packaged the book, I screenshot the pages. When I read them after, I questioned the entire process. Why did I wrote this instead of that, and that instead of this, and I don’t mean grammatically. The book seemed like a massive error of judgment.

I thought of returning under a cloak of darkness to retrieve the envelopes. If they were still there. But, that’s illegal. Plus, my roommate hid my car keys when I mentioned the idea.

Throughout those seventeen pages, I rambled about “not leaving words unsaid.” Our breakup, your cologne, our first dance, and pasta. My ex, orange juice, and newspapers.

Seriously, newspapers?

A couple years ago, you mentioned your emotions. Not for me. Just in general. In this book, I expressed mine, spewing details I couldn’t admit to myself for years.

Laying my confessions on you wasn’t fair. I rambled on, page after page. The narrative is buried in bullet points and serial killer cursive.

I apologize if my words opened old wounds and others left you confused. Especially the illegible ones. And the stuff about sprinkles. Plus, the third paragraph on page three sounds a little creepy.

Let’s admit, this entire scenario’s creepy.

For months I thought the book was a horrible decision. I should’ve waited until my mind was clear. Not full of fluffernutter.

But, I’ve changed my stance.

Imagine a scenario where life is good. You’re happy. You’re laughing. Then, poof! Drama, mayhem, and zero parental guidance or support. I’d love to douse the latter part of last year with kerosene. And add a few months of this year.

In foresight, the book would’ve read: “Look, I’m not over you, and thanks for the dance … but my life’s a mess. And I have a feeling it’ll get worse. Save yourself! Oh, and prepare for Brexit. Again. And again.”

Back to the book? Those bullet points? I thought number eleven was the funniest. And I probably lost you within the context of number fifteen. On page eight, I seem to be arguing with myself. I’m not sure who won. And I’m pretty sure the middle of page twelve is off the table.

But, I meant what I wrote about closure.

Closure isn’t real. It’s something we’ve created … you know the rest.

After all, you have the book.

Always,

Tessa

P.S. Hopefully, you read beyond page two.

********

*Name changed for privacy