For a long time I've been interested in the relationship between the writer and her creation. For example, why are there so many writers in films? What or who do the characters correspond to things or people in the author's life? One of the special privileges of being friends with a writer is that you are allowed access to a whole other dimension of their work.
Not quite the case in this piece, but it's related to the subject.
Enjoy, Love Letters, by mikeec216.
You look beautiful dancing through my memory. No I'm not some stalker watching from far away. I don't watch anymore. In the past I did, and you danced just for me then. Now you're just a memory to me, but I'm lost. I hope that you can guide me again; there's no one I would rather follow. I know that for sure now. Lead me on to that joy I remember so well.
Always,
Your Admirer
She put the letter back in its small envelope marked only with her name. She was so confused. She had no clue who it was. The script was so unfamiliar. Who had she danced for? After so many years of ballet it was hard to remember all the times she'd danced, and that was so many years ago too. She twirled a short braid through her fingers as she thought about the letter again. She took it out to read it over one more time.
---
He stood in the stairwell, his back against the door to her floor, his heart pounding against his ribcage. He could hardly believe that he'd finally slid the letter under her door he'd written nearly a month before. What was he thinking? He was the one that had given up on them before, not her. It had never been her fault, but after all these years it still felt like such a mistaken to him to have let her go.
Maybe she would just throw it away. Maybe she would not care, but what if she knew it was him? The letter ran through his mind over and over again. Did he leave any clues to point to him? He finally decided that his secret was safe, but what if she just guessed it was him? No, she avoided the heartbreak of seeing him face-to-face again as much as he did; she would not want to think of that. What if she wanted to get hold of him, to write back. He had not dared dream of that possibility until now. A curse escaped his lips almost breathlessly as he bolted down the flight of stairs to his room below to compose another letter to her.
---
It was a week since the first letter had arrived and she was still perplexed. As she walked back into her dorm from intramural practice it was the only thing on her mind. As she opened the door to her room wearing her flip-flops with her cleats in hand something touched her toe. Could it be another letter? She picked it up the envelope and turned it over. Her name stared back up at her in the same script as before. As she closed the door she peeled opened the letter. She laid it open on her desk and dug for the first letter in the depths of her desk drawer where she had hidden it from others. The handwritings were identical. She focused on the second letter and began to read it, intent to determine just who her Admirer was.
---
She never was much of one for dating in high school. She'd always thought that God would provider her with a husband some day, but she'd never bothered to look for the one she had wanted. God had always left her happy before. One day in college a friendship from high school turned out to be more then she had thought it was. One of her closest friends admitted that he had been infatuated with her almost since they had met. She didn't know how to respond as he asked so much of her. He wanted a decision as to how she felt about him, friendship she had thought, but as she thought about it it was more. She realized that she had feelings for him too. Their relationship went by almost in a whirlwind. He was almost always sad that she didn't feel as much for him as he did for her. They spent nearly all their free time on the phone with each other, but whenever they were together it didn't take words for them to express just how much they felt for each other. Then one day, as suddenly as it had started, it was over. He told her that he was still in love with another who he had broken up with before. She was lost and confused but determined not to lose her friend. She kept in touch with him and they talked regularly. One day, without warning, he just stopped responding. They never spoke again. Jaded she left it up to God again, determined not to have her heart broken a second time. She wouldn't interfere again. If God had her a husband somewhere in the future He'd provide one for her, she wouldn't find one herself.
---
I hope that I have not scared you away. I can not tell you how long I have held in these words because I was too afraid. I feel I could write on forever about your beauty and grace, your talents, your wit, all because I have finally taken that first step, but I dare not say too much for fear of loosing you before I have even been close to you. The question at hand to me is how do I get to truly know you. I feel as if to some extent I already do, but surely there is something you wish to tell me. I know I have not told you much about myself, but I fear you knowing me. I know not why. What am I to do? If you ask me a question I will answer it, but how do you ask. I would rather continue this mystery of you not knowing who I am. The best solution I can come up with is that you tape your letters to your door while I slide mine under the same. I am sure this seems strange, if not even ridiculous, but I am too shy to meet you face-to-face just yet. Know me before you meet me.
Always,
Your Admirer
She read the letter a final time for the night, and there was no doubt in her mind; the letters were the same. What was she to do. So many question whirled through her head. She had so much she wanted to ask him. How did he know her and did she know him? Had they met before? Why her? Why the secrecy? What should she write? She pulled out a sheet of paper and it stared blankly at her until she finally gave up. There was too much going through her mind to put down a simple letter. Maybe she could find a way to meet him and ask him instead. The scheme began to brew in her mind as she turned off the light in her room and crawled under the covers to sleep.
---
Well this isn't the end of the piece as I envisioned it, but it is the end none the less. The girl I love, my inspiration for this story, says she can't love me anymore. That means I have given up hope. I'm done writing letters and I'm done with this story.
1 comment:
I approve of this message.
-MikeEC216
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