Dfaa5525 5e2a 435e 868d d8366639a3d1

Anna Lang

United States

Boston, MA
16

Message to Readers

I would love to receive any feedback at all before I submit my final draft later in the month. Thanks so much!

Dear Will

February 8, 2016

I settled into my desk. I had everything I needed: a cup of fragrant tea, a knit blanket, my favorite pen and a stack of paper. But I just couldn't bring myself to begin. Because as soon as I let "Dear Will" bleed into the paper, I would truly be saying good bye.

Will is (do I say was now that he's leaving?)- Will was devilishly funny, mischievous and had an ego so big I'm surprised it fit in his wiry body. Will was my best friend, and best friend is too big of a concept to convey with frail words. How can shaky lines hold our whispering texts and loud conversations full of meaning and humor and something that was distinctly us? The truth is that words cannot, for they mean absolutely nothing. Nothing he said could make it okay that he was leaving.

It's been an hour now. There's no more tea in my cup, and the pen and stack of paper stays untouched. A breath of wind sweeps through the house, scattering the papers. I leave them that way.

Will was always the one that made me smile, for real. Will had so much in him, but not many people could get passed his appearance and thick accent. I am so happy that I did.  I could never imagine my best friend as anyone else except him, with his too big head on stick thin limbs and thick glasses that magnified his eyes into a terrific size.

I arrange my pens; colored pens, gel pens, fountain pens. I arrange them again, from biggest to smallest. I arrange them seven more times.

Will was will itself. He never backed down from anything. He was resilient and steadfast, and in those moments he faced my fears, eyes blazing and shoulders back, were the times I loved him so much it hurt. I always thought we made a nice pair: the girl who lives to please everyone, and the boy who lives for what he wants. I'm glad what he wanted was my friendship.

I don't try to arrange the pens anymore. I let them roll freely on my desk, an occasional pen falling of the desk and clattering on the ground. I throw the window wide open, welcoming the incoming storm. The wet and humid and grey whip through the room, settling into the paper, my hair and my heart.

Will was the only one who understood my inability to speak. Will was the missing courage in me. He was my voice, my crutch and my confidence. And I'm scared as hell that he's leaving. The last thing he said to me was that he was leaving so I could learn how to live on my own. Live on my own? The only reason I lived was because of him. I told him so, and he smiled and his head wobbled a bit on his skinny neck. His eyes slowly leaked dribbles of tears, painting shining pathways down his cheek.  I had never seen him cry before.

The room is an utter mess, papers stuck to the walls and wet with rain and my tears. The world is spinning in the depths of a hurricane, edges blurring and dripping into each other.
I can’t decide if I hate him because he’s leaving me, or if I love him so much more because of this. I hate you. I love you. I don’t really know anymore.

I lay in the middle of it all, and just breathe.

In, out.

In, out.

My fingers find a pen and I fumble for a sheet of damp paper.

In, out.

In, out.

My pen kisses the page, black ink spider webbing across the translucent surface.

Dear Will,




 

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