Letters I Can't Send: Volume 1

To the girl I met in second grade,

I miss the way we were. Innocent. Indulgent. Interested. We've lived a lot of life since then. We're different now. I hate the way things change. But as I write this, it's as if nothing's changed. I can picture everything, still. I remember the first time we met, in a single-file line headed to the cafeteria when you told me you kissed Dalton underneath the teacher's table. I remember ditching the playground for the shaded entryway during 5th grade recess to do book club without the Texas heat putting a damper on things. We loved Harry Potter. And I remember running into you at Kroger during junior-year winter break thinking we were still kindred spirits even though we hadn't talked in a while.

Now I just watch your life in pictures.

From what I can tell, you're moving to New York and you're going to be a writer. Not that my opinion matters, but it suits you. You always felt things deeply like me. You got excited by the minutiae of it all and you were never afraid to say what you thought. I think all great writers are that way. And New York, gosh, it's so far from where we're from and so different, but you were never one to do what everyone else was doing. I have a feeling it's going to bring greatness out of you. Send me a signed copy of your bestseller in a few years, won't you?

As for me, I'm doing alright. I took a 9-5 out in DC. It'll pay the bills, but it's not a forever thing. If I start thinking about it too much, I come to the conclusion that I've lost something you've managed to hold onto throughout the years — passion. I can tell by the way you talk about your future, about New York, about writing, it brings you to life just like Dalton or book club or seeing a familiar face did all those years ago. I want to feel that again.

You are my inspiration to live a life worth writing about. I'll always remember you as the blonde pony-tailed girl with glasses who was brave enough to turn around and make a friend in the second-grade hallway.

In hopes our paths cross again,

The Monochrome Man