Dear Andréa

PROLOGUE

Dear Andréa,

I miss you.

I debated for years whether to write to you. I have written many messages; drafts - where to begin after so long. I wonder if I will even send you this one.

Today, I read an old book - Emily Brontë's Wuthering Heights.

I remember sitting next to you in our English literature class, in Grade 12th of Miss Zara's class, gasping as we both read the line, "He shall never know I love him: and that, not because he's handsome, but because he's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made out of, his and mine are the same."

Right after reading, you took your red pen; the one you would bite and chew on when the books you were engrossed in would make you feel at the edge of your seat, and underlined these very lines in my book, marking it with a heart. I remember the look in your big brown hazel eyes that day, locking with my own, piercing my soul, and causing my heart to race against my chest. The messy lines and jagged heart you carved on my pages marked me to this day – was it intentional?

For years, I yearned for you.

My heart would skip a beat whether our thighs brushed against each other, bare below our school uniform, riding up whenever we sat at our desks. I remember how you would gracefully reach for my skin, with the tip of your fingers, daring, as the teacher talked to us, he's desk pressed against our own.

My dearest Andréa, I am reaching out after six years. We were children last we spoke, and yet, why does my heart feel like it still knows yours? Why do my lips still crave yours, soft and pillowy? I wished you never gave me any idea that one day when our lips touched in the comfort of your bedroom, behind closed doors.

Once again, you hold power over me, as I await your response.

Sincerely yours – still,

Lanna.