Page 74 of Love Letters to Christmas

Taking a deep breath, I carefully open the envelope.

My dearest Admirer,

This seal is beautiful. I adore it. It’s perfect. You are the remarkable one. I would utterly perish the thought of your feelings not being serious, as I am sure you know mine are.

Sadly, I’m not sure if my answer to how you will know when you’ve changed will be very helpful at this point, but I’ll give it anyway. You will know one day, when you wake up and you realize that the voice in your head is naturally kinder. Small realizations will come along the way, and I encourage you to dwell on them, the differences, the meaningful moments that might hurt to look at since they’ve not always been your reality. They might make your past feel like lost time, but nothing that has created the you of this moment is truly lost, because who you are in this moment is someone beautiful and worthy.

I can guarantee right now that you do not suck at all; you’re just dealing with sucky thoughts that are attempting to define you.

Please don’t let them.

People are self-centered. I’m afraid that’s life. We are the only vessels we have to look through, so the world is twisted to the shapes of our eyes.

Thinking of others is a muscle I’m sure you have been forced to stretch. Force is a dreadful way of building character. You are good enough. You are not a waste of space. You are capable and strong and worthy of far less bitterness than you have been given.

I, too, with every correspondence find myself somewhat more taken by you, which is troubling given that you appear to have a flawed perception of me.

Allow me a moment to open your eyes to my own nature.

I am not so wonderful. I am somewhat human. I scheme quite constantly.

My own wants motivate me toward questionable action, and I don’t repent whenever I find that my wants contradict someone else’s. I mess with people more than I should. I derive an odd enjoyment from seeing how people behave.

I love people, but that doesn’t mean I always have their best interests in mind—and certainly not when I decide that a less-than-best interest might be more fun.

Like you, I crave attention. Unlike you, I am not considerate enough to wait, starving, while the potential for validation passes me by. I ask for it. Loudly. Usually while pouting. Which, yes, is very mature of me, thank you for asking.

Everyone has their inner darkness. Almosteveryone prefers to present a more angelic front. But the truth is usually less glistening once you really come to know someone.

Logic will ever battle emotion. Emotion will ever distort reality.

We shall ever watch the sparks fly.

I hope that one day you might allow me the honor of teaching you what love feels like. Until then, you may know that I adore the gift of time. Being with someone who spends their time with me or for me means a lot. It’s another reason why mail matters so much. Someone had to sit down and spend time creating something for me. They put their time into a package and sent it my way to treasure.

In conjunction with my revelation of selfishness and my desire to be shown love, I have a terrible question for you.

Might I steal your time on July 25th?

There’s a Christmas in July party at Whirlwind Branding at 7:00 PM. I do assume you know this, as I do assume you must work there, too, seeing as I rarely am in a position to meet anyone outside of my place of employment.

Cast off the anonymity for me. And, if you still do not feel ready for a relationship, allow me to love you anyway. As it stands, it is my belief that growth is easier when it isn’t pursued outside support.

Eager to give you all my attention,

Your Brian

P.S. - We can still send letters to each other after we’ve met. Don’t worry.

My eyes glue toallow me to love you anyway, and I can’tbreathe. It’s a huge promise if Brian doesn’t know who he’s talking to. But…if he does…

I swallow and run my fingers across the words.

Could I, in ten days, be strong enough to stand before Brian and plainly admit that I’ve been writing him love letters?

My rampant heartbeat does not seem to think so.

Milling the possibility over, I drive home to find Brian standing at the door with a tray of turnovers in his hands. “A-mail-ia,” he declares, brightening. “Dinner’s ready.” His green eyes heat. “Unless, you’d prefer your dessert first?”

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