Tag Archives: boys and girls

Maybe it's a collection of small moments. And an active decision to save certain ones.

letter 29 – someone you want to tell everything to, but too afraid

via weheartit.com

Dear Mike,

Sometimes, I wonder what I ever saw in MySpace. It’s such a mess of a site.

Sometimes, I wonder what I ever saw in cross-country. It’s such a lonely sport. But then I wonder what would’ve happened if I never joined MySpace or ran cross-country. If our paths had never crossed.

I wrote ten different letters in my head before I settled on this one, but maybe that’s what this whole thing’s about. I knew that when I started this challenge, you deserved a letter. I just didn’t know what it would say.

This is a thank you for never judging me when you found out where I’d been. Who I’d been. For seeing me the same way you’ve seen me for the last five years. For reminding me why I like being friends with guys. For being in my life for these last six years, however sparse at times.

That’s my fault—not yours.

Thank you for arguing with me about who had a better boy’s varsity team well past midnight all those years ago on AIM when I should’ve been doing homework. Thank you for keeping me up until two a.m. and always telling me to have sweet dreams when I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore.

You’re one of only a handful of consistencies in my life. And I don’t think I ever tell you that, but you deserve to know. You deserve the truth.

For some reason, whenever I listen to Hands Down by Dashboard Confessional, I think of you. And sometimes, I want to call you and tell you how many songs I imported into iTunes (just so you know, it’s 5526 songs).

Sometimes, I feel like I’m back in your red Jeep on the way to the King of Prussia mall and you’re making fun of me for playing 3 Doors Down because it’s the first artist I recognize when I scroll through your iPod.

It’s funny, knowing someone for five years and only having a handful of tangible, face-to-face memories. But each one is stuck in my memory. You’d be surprised by the details I remember. I’m surprised by the details I remember.

But maybe that’s life. Maybe it’s a collection of small moments and an active decision to save certain ones.

I guess what I’m trying to say is thank you for giving me memories worth remembering. Thank you for being the kind of friend that sticks around for five years, stringing together conversations from 300 miles away. Thank you for knowing me better than I probably know myself and for always driving me crazy with your incessant debating and god awful nine-minute instrumental metal songs.

That’s what’s real. Driving someone crazy until you’re stuck in her life.


The way you move is like a full on rainstorm. And I'm a house of cards.

letter 23 – the last person you kissed

Dear _____,

I could string together a long list of Taylor Swift lyrics to try and explain how I feel about you, but I have a feeling it wouldn’t help much.

Because I hate the way you drive me crazy. The way you can’t make up your mind about anything, but you’re so sure of everything. I hate the way you call me in the middle of the night and I always answer. Or the way I never demand a real answer, a real explanation for anything. I hate the way you annoy me fifty percent of the time and the other half I think we could be best friends.

And I hate that all I want — all I really want — is to be your friend.

Because you would kiss me every Friday night for the next year and a half if you wanted to. You would, probably. And it wouldn’t bother you that you didn’t know what you wanted or you didn’t ask what I wanted.

But I can’t be that girl for you. I can’t be the kind of girl who listens and shares and throws her whole heart out there because she knows you’ll understand. Because she knows you’ve been there too.

I want to be. I want to be your best friend in the world, sometimes. But I don’t want to be two sides of the same coin. Not two girls with two different functions in two different settings. I can’t be your Friday night girl. Your lonely-at-three-in-the-morning girl.

Not unless it means driving around a small town with the radio on low in the background. Or walking past cornfields and cow pastures on cold nights in the middle of autumn. Or circling parking lots on brisk evenings in early spring.

Not unless it means that and only that. I can’t be anything more.

Because if you grew up with me, we could’ve spent early mornings at the Limerick Diner conversing over coffee. Because we relate to each other. We understand each other. We are each other, maybe.

Maybe that’s why it can’t be me and you. Or at least a major reason.

Friends is a funny concept. It means saying what you need to say, what you want to say, and not having to worry about the other person’s reaction.

I have this problem where I can’t stop talking. Where I start telling you something and I just keep going and I don’t shut up. And I kind of want someone — in this case, you — to smack me upside the head and tell me to be quiet. But you don’t. And it’s weird, being on the other end of the conversation.

Sort of this natural give and take. Me talking and you listening. You talking and me listening. And that’s the part I don’t want to lose. But the rest of it, I can’t be that girl for you. Not anymore.