"...to dance with you till we're both dead."

sincerely, gong jun: an email

Subject: Could we possibly go over our lines at noon tomorrow? It's fine if you can't. I'm free at most times. Sorry.

From: gongjun*email.com

To: zhangzhehan*email.com

12:23 pm

Draft Version #48

Dear

Mr. Zhang,

Thank you so much

for your considerate gift, and I

apologize for emailing so late at night.

Unfortunately you see, I was

I was stuck in traffic, and according to the Law

one cannot consult their phone

while conducting a vehicle. So you see

I had no choice. And I'm

really sorry, but I do believe it is important for us

(especially as celebrities and you so celebrated),

to be lawful.

Again,

apologies,

but I was wondering whether

whether you had time tomorrow to go over lines. It's perfectly fine

if you don't. I mean,

we can definitely reschedule, it's completely your call. In fact,

I do have time for the remainder of these next

thirty three weeks, so any given time during that is

fine. Except for nighttime, as I have to go to sleep.

(But if it's

early in the night,

e.g. before midnight,

I think I can manage)

Sorry

for bothering you, and sorry

for the inconvenience.

You know, if you email me back,

or like

send me a text or something,

even at 12:23 dead of night,

I wouldn't be bothered

at all.

Even though you don't have my number.

Even though you probably don't want to

or won't ever have an occasion that you would want to

get it. You know what, I don't even know what I'm talking about.

Sometimes I wish this was real.

Sometimes I wish you'd see these words,

this email,

and we can encase ourselves in a glass box

and never move again.

But is that really what you want?

Time, freezing,

a glass coffin?

You are free, Zhe Han, no net ensnares you,

and certainly not me.

I build for myself

a house of hay,

assembled with rosemaries,

weak sweetgrass,

and in it I stand shivering.

Don't know when it's going to come crashing down,

the house built on the dreams I dream

where I trace your silhouette with my fingers.

Summer has its ending day, doesn't it.

Tell me, Zhe Han,

what do I have to do

to see summer like that

on your skin again?

The sun, too,

melts in its own heat

thirty three times each day. But I do want to apologize

for all this. My collapse is not your burden,

to carry. Even if I crumble to pieces,

I won't crumble on you. My dust on your favorite white hoodie. Wouldn't stand for it.

And sorry,

for plaguing you. I'll erase these words now

from mind and memory, and send the email,

only to immediately unwind, undo it, in regret.

This is not, ultimately, a dreamscape.

The next thirty three weeks, both heaven and hell.

But know this:

I

wish you loved me too.

Sincerely,

Gong Jun

P.S. I would really like to thank you again for your generous gift, it really brightened my day. I will pay you back tomorrow.