Open Letter #4

Dear ——,

I’m a terribly dreary person when it comes to writing.

I know that, and really, thank you for putting up with it most days. It’s rare for me to write about genuine happiness or the brighter side of love, not because I’m not surrounded by it and certainly not because I don’t have any in my life. But I’ve always found it easier to write about the pangs of regret and the hollow curves left by other people.

Everyone can relate to those words in some way. But not everyone has the fortune of saying they’ve played with someone in the rain and woke up with a raging fever two days after—somehow. That they’ve spent morning until the next talking about absolutely nothing to someone that laughed along to their inner monologue finally coming out. That they’ve wasted time doing something they had no interest in because by the end of it, when they sent that little picture of their work, they knew it would make that special person smile—if but for a moment.

I’m projecting, aren’t I? I can’t help it.

I suppose… what I’m really trying to say is that—now, excuse the extreme corn-yness of my words, seriously, I know you want to laugh. But refrain. No smiling and no jokes either. Not yet. Ready? Here goes—I’m glad I have you.

Oh god, that was harder to write than I expected.

I must’ve cringed and furiously retyped it about six times.

And yes, I know you’re laughing.

P.S. Thanks.

—N. Rinth


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