Dear Gisella {On Hold}

11| I'm glad you're here

Dear Gisella,

Do you remember how broken I was when James Connwick (the dude who sat with us at the lunch table in middle school) called me 'arrogant'?

It shattered me. He was -apart from Rome and you- my best buddy. Mostly because he shared his PB&J sandwiches with me, heh.

But as a fourth grader, I found it hard to understand why the eff he'd called me arrogant.

I was frequently plagued with questions like "what did I do?", "Why is he mad?" and "what does arrogant even mean?"

He changed schools a few months later, family problems and shit. But I never forgot the anger in his eyes and words, the way his lips curved around the foul word. (I loved being dramatic, even back then)

It wasn't until I was in 8th, that I shared this incident with Dad. You know what he told me?

"Son," he said,"what he deems 'arrogant', I term 'pride' and 'self-confidence'. There's nothing wrong with having faith in yourself. He was just taking his anger out on you, probably. Don't let his words cut you, not when his words are false."

I guess what I'm trying to show you, is that at times, the things people perceive of you and about you, may be slightly altered, ugly versions of the truth.

Don't take it too seriously. People, in general, like to make other living beings their verbal punching bags. I'm not encouraging it, but you have to admit it's normal. It's unintentional.

So don't fret over every little comment. Let it go. (Let it gooooo, can't hold it back anymooooore).

This moral lesson was pretty random, wasn't it? I guess it's cause I'm coming so close to the last few letters. I want to leave behind more than just imprints and memories.

I want to give you so much more. This is my sorry attempt at being a big brother (don't even try to argue, I'm 6 minutes and 32 seconds elder to you).

Oh, and Ella?

I love you.

Love (lots and lots of love! It's a parade of love!),
Jayden

Summer vacations had started, and I was bored out of my mind. I had told the Fam that I wouldn't be joining them on the trip, despite all their protests.

During the past few days, I'd let go of the cool front the previous letters had brought on.

I'd apologized to Roman, and everyone else, for my weird behavior, telling them I was unwell.

Yawning, I sat up in bed. Ruffling my hair with one hand, I thought longingly of pancakes and orange juice. I wanted a breakfast in bed. I envisioned a butler in a tailored suit, complete with the faux British accent, bringing up a tray laden with all sorts of breakfast-arian delicacies.

Honestly, though, I loved breakfast. I could eat breakfast for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Eggs at 10am? Sure. Pancakes at 3? Why the hell not! Ooh, bacon at 8pm? Hell yes.

I have my quirks.

Anywho, giving up on the prospect of the sudden appearance of a British Butler, I pulled myself out of bed. Slipping my feet into my comfy bunny slippers, I pounded down the stairs and into the kitchen.