Dear Ashton » Ashton Irwin

✎ letter 07

December 25th, 2010

Dear Ashton,

I am writing this letter on Christmas day, half past eleven o'clock, scrawling down words which you may never read. Strange, isn't it? Maybe. But what is beyond bizarre is that yearned to compose this memorandum; my fingers itching to hold the ebony felt tip pen to record the affricates in which I cannot speak. At least I cannot speak of them to you, for they are precious. Even inscribing my thoughts on flimsy paper feels insanely ludicrous. The words that illustrate everything I feel should not be plastered on a decrepit sheet, but rather, across a billboard. A placard is capable of capturing one's eyes — millions even — which is why it should be presented in such a prominent area. In that case, everyone can see what I see and they can appreciate you, the way I do.

Ashton, let me tell you something. I adore you, I do. Not for the vast things, that everyone admires of you, such as your athletic abilities. No, I don't care for those, and I seldom cherish those. I adore you, for the way your tongue often grazes your lips, chestnut eyebrows furrowing, when you are confused (which is a lot, because you often divert your mind into your thoughts, and when the teacher calls upon you, you would answer in ridiculous forms). You are adept in making me happy when I am not.

Even on Christmas, without my dad, you have the power to make me happy.

We exchanged words, and it was unusual. You recognized me, the girl who sat two seats behind you in your English class. You recognized me, the girl who never spoke (not in class, at least) unless she is called upon. You recognized me, the girl who is just there. No one ever notices me; I am just a presence in which no one acknowledges. I was alive, but at the same time, I wasn't. I was alive, for my body was there, it was breathing. But my soul, it was not there; it was suffocating; unable to breathe. It was dying. When you came along, you rescued me from myself, my misery. My thoughts had been replaced with blossoming daisies. I used to feel melancholy; my body frequently grew numb, as if someone had grabbed a tapering knife, and struck me repeatedly, no matter the amount of times I pleaded, they did not hear my words. Ignored was the expression has construed me for years, and that made me ache of melancholy.

My father, he was like you. He made me feel like I was important. No one made me feel that way for six years. You make me feel as if I have significance, like I belong somewhere. It has been years without that — that perception. And now, that notion, it's surging back to me: slowly.

I don't think all the universe's stars could display my overwhelming ecstasy.

You, Ashton, you are like a greenhouse of gardens. The flowers will blossom as you tend it. The nourished herbs will revive your conscience; and the nutrients — the water, the sun, and the air — will save the shrubs, it will keep the plants existing. Much like you Ashton, for you consistently nurture for me. Not in the ways as expected, but your pure happiness keeps me alive — not literally. The way you behave, it revitalizes me. I breathe off you like how cosmos breathe off their vitamins. Your laugh, your happiness, your optimism, is the reason I feel more animate.

You said that we will talk soon, and my terror expands, just like a snowball. I know you are the type to keep promises, and so, my worries flourish. What if I speak to you and a confession slips from me? What if we grow close, only to fall apart? What if I, obliterate from your mind?

God, I fear oblivion when it comes to you. My heart extracts, to even think of that, of being forgotten.

Please don't forget me because I most certainly won't forget you.

Love,

Nova

P.S. I had a wonderful Christmas, with you being there with me. I hope you, too, had a spectacular Christmas.

A/N: if someone else mentions tfios, i swear...