May 28, 1985
Hey Harry,
Happy birthday to the guy who loves to drink hot orange juice for breakfast. The man who thinks blue is the new black. That one boy who, I know, is still head over heels in love with Barbie. And by the time he reaches this sentence, I know for a fact that he can’t stop smiling because he is indeed still stuck in his dream of becoming Barbie’s Ken. Golly, I can’t believe you’re twenty-three years old now. Suddenly, I feel like we’re old people. Think about it, Harry. Sometimes growing old can be a little scary. One day, you’ll wake up and realize that the people you’ve come to love are no longer there. You see new ones who doesn’t know a thing or two about what it’s like to be treated as a history. Just a mere thought of it gives me chills.
Anyhow, I hope you’re loving those scented candles I gave you for your birthday. I know, I know. You’re probably saying to yourself, “What the heck was she thinking?”. But hey, give those sweet, little candles a chance. I gave you those because I knew that if I had given you another shirt—you would have just added it to your mountainous collection of unused clothes. Yes, Harry, I guess you can consider yourself a horder. So there I was yesterday, strolling through the mall; trying to find the right gift for you. Along the way, I came across this little shop called “Light, Ready, Wish!”. Which I thought was adorable, so I’d decided to go and take a look at the things they sell. Then I saw those candles; and I knew in a heartbeat that it was the perfect gift for you.
It’s like how I knew you were meant to be more than just my friend. That one day, this friendship would turn into something deeper. It didn’t took me that long to realize the obvious. I was born to love and protect you.
Tell your sister, Tamara, I said thank you. I enjoyed her homemade cupcakes so much that I couldn’t even put the box in the fridge.
I love you more than the frosting loves the cake.
Hopeful forever,
K
(Written at the back of a pizza box)
Not Mailed
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Hey Harry
TienerfictieA collection of letters written by a woman who, for some reason, never had it all mailed to the man she was in love with.
