Dear Shoshana Friggin' Karp,
I'm not entirely sure how to start the letter that confesses my secret love. I mean, doesn't it defeat the whole purpose of said secrecy? But, I will anyway because Sky told me to and I got it from this book that seems legit even though it didn't play out well for the protagonist, 'cause that's the person I am.
But you already knew that. Just like how you've known every little thing about me since we were seven. Like how my favorite color is green, sometimes orange if I'm feeling particularly bold; how horror movies make me laugh and comedies make me cry; how I stumble whenever you say my name and reach for my hand because she wouldn't; how I can babble for days—like now, at 3:00 am in my monkey jammas as I'm scribbling all the reasons I'm totally, madly in love with you.
Like, my first reason in the second grade was because your jet black bob smelled like strawberries and your bony hands like grapefruit.
When you always helped me up when you saw me on the sweaty pavement, rather than running off and laughing like everybody else always had.
The third had been the way you tugged at my shirt to say you were there, because you had understood what it felt like when nobody was.
Fourth was in Sepkowitz's and you told me you loved me. You didn't mean it like I do, you don't remember, but you were so open and giddy—smiling at the ants in their little maze made of gel and glass, revealing your missing front teeth. You were care free and had that shirt on, the one I gave you, something had clicked then.
In the fourth grade, in that fight Ava had 100% started, your cheeks red and your speech blurry and flustered, I had my fifth reason. You didn't want to talk to me because I hurt you. You stood your ground and told me you deserved better. You were right, you always have been.
Like when we had that report and you made me Van Gough because you knew I'd rock it and I didn't believe you. You had been so right.
What I'm saying is that I love you, and I have and I will forever because, honestly, you're my best friend. You fill me with jalapeño poppers and make everything better; you FaceTime in your stained bright yellow shirt, complaining about your back because you were reading and got in that weird position; we used to play cafe in your backyard when all else failed us, and you'd swat me with the neon blue broom 'cause I hadn't baked the "cookies" right; you make it absolutely impossible to cry or do anything you deem as "not something I'd suggest, but okay". I can't imagine the last thousand years without you.
And a part of me, a small, teensy, little part, wants you to know. Just a little.
