Dear [redacted]

Part 1

Dear [redacted],

Every song has its own tempo, and some just don't sync, no matter how hard you try. That's not an indictment on either song, though — they're just different. No one expects a beautiful remix to come out of The Beatles and Eminem.

Well if I'm The Beatles, then you are Eminem.

I don't blame you, we both know that I gave off a horrible first impression. I was tired, grumpy and wanted to get back to my book, and boy did I let you know.

I didn't expect you to forgive me or anything, but I didn't expect it to get worse.

How did it all go so horribly wrong? Looking back, it was a sort of death by thousand paper cuts. And I remember each cut with painful clarity.

"You've got something on your cheek." Er, it was a pimple, and I pointed it out in front of everyone. Sorry. "What's the matter, cat got your tongue?" Actually, your cat died the night before, so I understand why you weren't all that chatty. "You're gonna be at Eva's party, right?" I should've paid attention to your relationship update — you probably remember that flub better than I do.

I know it's far too late, but you should know that I'm sorry. And here's another thing I should've said sooner: I'm a teensy bit in love with you.

I won't glamorise it, make it out like some movie romance. Sure, you're hot — you have the same greenish, hazel eyes as your sister and messy, dark brown, hair. I could get over all that, but not everything else.

We had a lot of overlap in social circles, as I'm sure you knew, so I heard all of your jokes, and saw how you treated people. And I know that you have a weird obsession with PopTarts (gross, by the way) and that you are genuinely curious about the world and the people in it.

Some people just aren't meant to get along. I know that. But looking back, all I really wanted was to smile with you — to chat about nothing, and feel happy about everything with you. I really, really wanted that.

Yours,

Anya