letters//mileven

1

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you can't wake up, this is not a dream

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I look up at the clock.

2:36, it reads.

That means there's around 24 more minutes of being stuck here in history class.

But it's all okay, because she's in this class with me. I look over at her and pick up my pencil.

Allow me to elaborate.

My name is Mike Wheeler, and I have been head over heels with El Hopper since I was in the 5th grade when she first came to this school. Everyday, I write her a letter. A letter that explains everything I want to tell her, in hopes maybe one day she'll read them.

There's only one problem. 

She's my best friend, and is completely oblivious to my feelings. She has no idea about the letters, and has no idea that I look at her more than she knows. We're so close that our parents let us spend the night at each other's houses.

Mostly her house.

Once again, let me explain.

My parents married for, well, marriage. My mom was young. My dad was older, however, he had money. He had a sustaining job. I've lived in Hawkins, Indiana my whole life, living as a part of a higher class family. I wouldn't call us first class, but I wouldn't call us second.

I hate our money. My parents offer to buy me anything I want when they fail to realize that their money cannot buy my happiness, or anyone's for that matter. If it was my choice, I would donate money monthly for those who are more in need of it. But my parents would never do that with their precious money.

El, however, lives in a small cabin in the wood with her adoptive father, Hopper. El has a lot of secrets. That I can tell. However, if I ask about them, she doesn't tell me. She simply shells up, and quickly changes the subject.

I look back down at my paper. 

Screw it.

 I pull my notebook out . It's a red spiral notebook, and I've never let it go ever since I got it in 5th grade. 

That's a lie. 

I've written a letter every day. For the first few years, they were on just notebook paper. Then I bought a notebook in 8th grade. I've used it ever since. I'm a sophomore now, as is El.

My pencil starts writing words I could never tell her aloud. 

Dear El,

I'm writing this in 7th period, our final period of the day. It's history. I haven't been listening to Mr. Davis all period. It's a Friday, and I'm coming to your house later. Which means you'll probably give me another lecture on why I should pay attention. I wonder why school matters so much to you. You've always loved it, but never told me why. 

Why do the smallest things in life matter so profoundly to you?

I've been staring at you the whole period.