One Hundred Letters for James

000

Dear You,

I did it.

Here it is, exactly how you asked for it; one per page, with a brief description.

I hope that you understand how terrifying it was to write this; to see each and every one of them written on paper.

You probably don't even remember asking for this, on that Sunday in April, when you were so impossibly drunk from your stupid break up with Sabrina, that you actually asked me why I didn't want to leave.

"I don't get it Kathleen, it's great. You get to leave this God-forsaken town, and start over. Why don't you want to go?" You had slurred, leaning into my shoulder in the park.

"I'm scared." You had started to lie down at this point, and pulled me down by hand so that we were both lying on that hill, that hill where you broke your ankle playing soccer in Grade Four.

"Of what?"

"Too many things to count."

"Then narrow it down to 100, or something."

"Seriously?" You sat up, nodding.

"Yea. Type it up or something when you have time at Uni." University. That was the reason why we had gone out that night, you were supposed to comfort me about going to Wales to study.

"I don't know,"

"Please?" Then you started giving me that ridiculous puppy face, where you make your eyes all big, you know the one.

"Fine."

So here it is.

All one-hundred of them.

And by the way, I miss you. I really miss you, even though I should hate you, and you probably hate me.

I'm sorry for what I said before I left, back in June of the year before last. Maybe once you read this, you'll understand.

Maybe once you read this, you'll call me back and answer all of my letters.

Don't you think that it's sad that you don't even know what your best friend is up to?

Dang it James, we're twenty,

We're twenty, and I miss you.

Do you even miss me?