Window - Reddie

chapter 16- early

[11.11]

Dear Richie,

There are people who have it worse than me.

I remind myself that on the daily.

I'm so grateful for so many things, Richie. I really am. I'm grateful for all of the losers. I'm grateful for my house, for my life... and for you.

I'm grateful for your smile, and for your laugh, even if seems so far away at times, and even if it was caused by someone who wasn't me.

I love your smile. I really don't know how I went so long without seeing it up close. I'm grateful that I have that privilege once again. Some people aren't as lucky as I am.

Anyways. That's not how I wanted to start this.

It's my birthday today.

I'm seventeen now. Can you imagine? Instead of doing anything cool or fun I'm sitting at my desk surrounded by textbooks and unfinished papers writing my thoughts to boy I love who will never lay his stupid blue eyes on my ramblings.

I'm starting to accept it more, I think. And as I become more comfortable with saying it and I become more comfortable around you once again, I sort of seem to... unwind? I'm not really sure.

Like, I'm starting to get it. We're separate. You're Richie, and I'm Eddie.  We stopped being RichieandEddie a long time ago.

Maybe we could one day reach a point where we're Richie-and-Eddie, but I don't think we'll ever achieve the closeness I so desperately yearned for again in my earlier entires. I think I get that now.

God, I keep going off of track. You kind of threw me off today.

I was greeted this morning with notes taped all over my locker, like some sort of high school cliché. I hated how much attention it drew, but then again I really didn't.

I could tell who wrote what card based on the handwriting on the outside of each of them.

Bill and Ben seemed to use some sort of calligraphy set. The letters of my name have never looked so good next to each other, seriously. Mike, Stan, and Bev just have naturally good writing. It makes me kinda jealous. Their E's are so straight and symmetrical, and it seems like they don't even try.

Your handwriting is awful, Rich. So so bad.

"Fucking chicken-scratch," is what Stan muttered once I removed your card from the front of my locker.

My name was plastered on the front in silver sparkly sharpie, and it looked like you wrote those stupid three letters in a matter of nanoseconds. 'Eds.'

I immediately liked yours best, but don't tell the others I said that.

"Thanks, guys," I told you all. I've never been good with that sort of stuff. "You assholes better not have put money in these," I gestured to the stack of cards in my hands. "I said no gifts."

"No promises," Ben said sheepishly as you all made eyes at each other. You bastards.

I was able to get my things out of my locker before the first bell rang, and all of our friends wished me happy birthday one last time before they split up to head to class.