*This piece is a work in process. I might update it later or completely repost it once I get it to what I'd like it to be.
He couldn’t pick which color pen he should use this time. He always packs a lunch for her on Friday’s, and recently gathered the courage to accompany the lunch with a letter. The first letter was written in black ink, but then he realized that black was too serious. While black represents comforting nothingness to him, he knew that she’d probably like something that had more personality (say, periwinkle). Whenever she drew, she refused to use charcoal or pencils, because it was “too depressing,” (or something like that.) Once he figured that out, he ran to the nearest art supply store and bought as many colourful pens as he could. Maybe with the right color, she’ll write back to him and reciprocate his feelings for her. As he stared at the contents of his Hello Kitty pencil case, (which should have honestly been hers, but he pussied out of giving it to her,) he decided to go with Chameleon Pen Bl4, Cornflower Blue. When he opened the pen, some ink spilled onto his hands and he couldn’t risk the possibility of mistake (again) and so he frantically wiped his hands on the pale shirt he was wearing, probably staining it. There was a time when he wanted to be fancy with the letters and bought a glass fountain pen paired with ink pots in hopes of making his letters seem more cordial and grand—but things didn’t go the way they were supposed to. Ink spilled all over the letter, just as he finished writing “Always Yours” in daffodil yellow. The ink bled into the Smythson Cream Wove A5 paper too well and the rest of the ink pooled over the desk, almost like it was rushing out and ever flowing. As if it had a life of its own (that he accidentally ended with the flick of the wrist. Oops.) He cried, because the letter was beyond saving at that point. Luckily there was more paper, but instead of relentless professions of love, the replacement letter just had rows of apologies. It took him a month or so to start writing letters again after the incident.
Today’s letter was a bit more somber than the rest. Maybe that’s why his hands reached for a shade of cold blue (like the corners of a dead man’s lips). In today's letter, he detailed how his love for her began. It started as a crush on the girl in the art department but multiplied like blood cells into a full-blown one-sided romance. Looking back, it was probably unhealthy—but when were feelings ever that easy to control? From her laugh to the way how she was almost the anthesis of his existence, from the way that he knew her while barely knowing her, how with her: nothing was ever his fault (even when it is)... how could he not love her? Emotions have no mercy (uncontrollable, like a car, spun out of control.) The letter spiraled from a warm greeting to describing the day he crashed in love with her.
He doesn’t really remember the details exactly of that day, but she was present for one of his many anxiety-driven panic attacks. They were friends at the time, sure-- but that day was when he felt his heart expand beyond what was natural and made his blood lukewarm with tranquillity. She was supposed to pick him up for a movie with their friends. Instead, a worried roommate answered the door and sheepishly shrugged their arms at her as they told her that he had locked himself in the bathroom. She didn’t know what to do but decided that maybe he just needed someone to be there, and ended up sitting on the floor leaning against the locked bathroom door. They were separated only by the door. She didn’t say anything to him but was just there. To him, it felt as if she was there for an eternity-- but the clock proved otherwise. It took him a record-breaking twenty minutes of counting backward by seven and listening to her breathing to calm down. After his little episode, they went to the movies and acted like everything was okay (and it kind of was.) He only felt anxious when he was alone (again) in his room (without her.) All he could think about was how she was there for him like no other has ever been.
It was a nice memory but probably seemed a bit creepy paired with confessions of how in love he is with her. He’s self-aware though, and knows that his words sound borderline obsessive, but needs to get it out. Someone told him he should, and one day he did then he never stopped since then. Maybe he’ll stop next year.
The lunch is ready now, as it sits inside an amaranth pink lunch bag. Macaroni and cheese (with breadcrumbs, just the way she likes it,) a side of cherry tomatoes and greens (nutrition for this lunch to be a balanced meal,) and a yogurt cup (peach flavored Chobani.) The letter is snug inside a Ziploc bag (he never forgets to bring the letter.) He takes his love and walks to where she is. He no longer drives (both for legal reasons and personal.) When he eventually arrives, he carefully places his love on the chartreuse green grass. After an hour (she ate slowly,) he returns home with the lunch bag and dumps his love into a trashcan (a waste of perfectly good food.) Next Friday, he will do the same. He knows she’ll never write back, but he doesn’t like to think about it.
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