Writing To Teddy

||Write Me a Story||

I had this one odd habit- one that had always put me through hell. Well, if you consider touching old gum hell. (By the way, it totally is.) But this time, it put me through something much, much worse. I started writing Teddy.

Before I get to him, you'll have to know me. I had made it through the last two years of high school without making a single friend. I loved it. I could do whatever I want, whenever I want, and develop a routine with no one to interrupt it. I could happily picture my entire life like this, just me and no one else to take care of or keep up with.

That meant that I could wake up at the exact same time every day, have the exact same breakfast, and then go to the exact same classes I had for the year. Then, I would sit down and exact same seat, and do the exact same thing-

My funny little tendency was that I always ran my hand under my seat after I sat down. I'm not exactly sure how I started this habit, but it isn't the worst habit a high schooler could have.

This morning was just like every other, I sat down in my spot, got out my books, and ran my hand under the seat. Expecting a clear path, I jumped a bit when my hand connected with something.

As subtlety as I could, I got down on one knee and pretended to tie my shoe while looking under the desk. There was a folded paper taped to the seat. I pulled it off gently and sat back down. I unfolded it carefully and tried not to draw attention to myself (because to be honest it may have looked like some sort of smuggling act or something).

It read, in neat handwriting, a single sentence.

"Hey, who's ever reading this, write me a story."

I felt my face contort in confusion. Seriously?! I rolled my eyes, almost smiling. I turned to throw it away, but, seeing no harm in entertaining what was probably an idiot, I took out the pen and started to write.

"Once upon a time, there was a girl who always ran her hand under the desk at school. One day, she found a letter written by a stranger and decided to write back, but she refused to write anything interesting because she didn't really care in the first place."

I hesitated, and then wrote one last thing.

"P. S. Next time, ( if there is a next time ) tell me your name and maybe you'll get a longer fairytale."

With this, I capped my pen and put the paper back, then opened my notebook and started taking notes like I was supposed to be doing the whole time.

By the time class was over, I had pretty much forgotten about the paper.  I mean, there's no reason to remember something that insignificant. I picked up my stuff and left, heading to my next class.

It was only when I was about to go to sleep but I remembered the note. I stayed up for a minute, contemplating why I had written to someone who would never see it. I guess I had for my own entertainment, but if that was true, why was I hoping for a reply tomorrow?