Dear [...]

Dear Logan

Dear Logan,

I was never genuinely afraid of anyone real. Sure, I had a lot of fear surrounding all people as a group, and I had been terrified of characters in picture books, but this is different. See, you have this menacing look to you, and to add to that, you have somewhat of an explosive erratic personality. So I never wanted to be on your bad side, I never want to be on your bad side, even now that I know you have no intention of hurting me.

There are only two letters I've ever put off, and this is one of them. I'm sure you know this, but something happened between us in sixth grade (well when I was in sixth grade, you were in seventh, that's besides the point). That poor girl didn't know at all what was happening. Lindsey is cute, I'll agree with you on that, but what happened is not okay.

But then again, I'm prone to exaggeration, maybe I'm being dramatic. Maybe the twisting emptiness in my stomach is all the work of an imaginative mind desperate for something, anything, interesting. What's more terrifying than the idea that I'm being crazy is the idea that I'm not. That that whole... mess, it was just as bad as I thought. Sleepless nights with reason are far more frightening.

There were so many pages. At least ten, all full of pictures of clothing, things you wanted her to wear, it left bile in my throat as time went on, yet I stayed silent out of fear for the repercussions of questioning you. It started out so innocent, I thought you just had a crush. I thought you were joking. You were just collecting pictures of dresses for the dance that you think would look good on her. They were nice dresses, perfectly appropriate. It was really after the dance that I began to feel so uneasy, because it didn't stop then as I thought it would.

Over time, the document became less cute and more creepy. Your dreams of seeing her in a dress quickly took a turn down a darker path when you asked me to add pictures of lingerie to the document, you were talking about finding her address so that you could get her in these clothes. I don't care that you would follow up those things with lol, it doesn't matter.

You were the cause of my first panic attack, when you asked me if I'd ever tell anyone. It was over a video chat, you had been showing me your new headphones, we were just talking about music, but the conversation became clouded by the looming threat that was wrapped in that question. In that moment, I knew this would be a secret I'd have to hold on to, regardless of how heavy it was to carry, regardless of if it kept eating at me.

So I kept playing along. I kept trying to silence a nagging voice, reassuring myself that this was okay, it was going to be okay. I helped you add the pictures you didn't want to google. I was a girl, so it wasn't a red flag if I was on websites selling bras. I was a pawn under your control. I did anything you asked, not hesitating until after each deed.

Whenever I had the urge to tell someone, an adult, even just a friend, I'd remind myself of your strength. I'd remind myself that if you ever wanted to hurt me, if you wanted to fight me, hell, if you wanted to kill me, there wouldn't be much (if anything) I could do to stop you. So I stayed quiet. Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months.

It was around this time that I developed this strong anxiety. Sometimes I still wonder how different my life would be if I had told someone sooner. If I had gone straight to administration. Instead I waited frozen, cast in a spell of fear.

I did eventually tell her, and even though it's been years since this happened, and you're over her, I'm still petrified of telling you this. Even though we're somewhat friends now, I still can't tell you that.

She sat next to me on the bus to New York. Being the person she is, she noticed something wasn't sitting right with me, she pressed me for details telling me she'd never seen someone she thought to be strong look so shaky. So, three months and fourteen days after the dance, which was two weeks and five days before the dance, I finally told someone. She was shocked. She didn't want to believe me, but at the same time, she knew me to be an honest person.

The following monday, I showed her the document. I wanted to cry, but I knew I had to be a stronger person if I was going to do anything. She asked me questions. She showed the pictures and stories you wrote to her friends, they all were witness to the thing that caused me so much pain, they began to meet her at her classes so she wouldn't risk seeing you in the hallways.

When I told her my viewpoint on this, she simply nodded. No words. She told me that she'd keep my name out of any complaints. I told her that was impossible, all I wanted was for you to not know. For my name to be kept far away from you.

I promised you I'd never tell. You just laughed and reminded me that, "Snitches are bitches," and you were holding a knife as you said that. Partly because of your sunglasses, partly because I can't read people, mostly because of my panic, I couldn't tell if you were joking. Still don't know how serious you were then, and in moments preceding and following that.

A week and a half after I told Lindsey, I was called to Ms. Clarkson, the guidance counselor's office during one of the two classes that you and I shared. They sent a friend of Lindsey's that was also in the girl group I was in to get me, to avoid you figuring out what was going on.

She didn't ask any questions, I assume that Lindsey had filled her in. She just told me to open the document. I shakily typed in the title, and clicked on the page. It felt like an hour in the seconds it took to load, but when it did... well, you know what happened better than I do.

Everything was deleted. All the pictures, all the threats, the comments, everything was gone. We checked the history of the document, it had all been wiped (something which you can't do without a decent bit of coding knowledge). They checked your computer's history, nothing. No screen caps could be found off Hapara, no history of you googling these dresses. Nothing. Lindsey swore she saw it, as did her friends. I swore I wasn't the creator or editor of that paper. But those were just words.

I don't know if you got in trouble, but I do know that for a month, we didn't talk at all. After that, we became somewhat friends again. We never talked about those pictures, not in jokes, or even in deep conversations. It's almost like it never happened.

Yours confused,

Ashton