free fallin

Dear i-think-you-know-who-you-are,

This is a letter from my heart to yours.

I’d like to call ourselves martyrs, if that’s alright.

I’m sure you don’t want me to post this. But that’s ok, because I’m almost 100% sure that I do. I don’t know how else to handle this. I never was as good as you at putting up a façade.

I heard about you first. About the text from our jr. vice pres. and how she forgot the last letter in your name. I heard about you from GW. And CH. (And every other girl that walked the halls with you-besides my twin, cause she heard about you from me.) They all really liked you.

Then I met you at jr jam. You were wearing a white t-shirt and said you’d play ultimate if I did. So I did. (And you thought I didn’t play sports.)

I saw you in the commons (remember that awkward hug?!?!??), Be The Change, our club and co-presidency, at concessions (to which you went more than the average student council member) and we sat talking in your car even though it was 1 am. I saw your McDonald’s runs and perfect and notes we wrote to JM and KH and NP. I saw you and RO and that date we went bowling and you were with her and I wished it me was instead. I saw you at Gold Rush and odd jobs and caroling and when I ran outside and it wasn't just you that was thinking that.

But then I liked DM and I didn't really see you for 10 months. And you moved. And I’m still sorry I didn't hang out with you that weekend, and I never even came to say goodbye. I should have.

Then March 13^th came and I was at the temple. And you came over and we went driving. Budapest came on the radio and you said you liked that song I wanted to say how ironic that was because that was the one thing that kept us apart for so long. Now it reminds me of the only two boys that have ever made me cry. And we sat on my couch for an hour and you were freaking out and so was I but I just pretended that I wasn't.

And just so you know I didn't kiss you because I wanted to be your first, but because of the times you listened as I ranted about DM or painted my nails for him. The times you stayed late at our house just to keep me company as I made my lunch and did homework. How the entire year and half that I've known you, you've never stopped caring about me. A year and a half is a long time. Because. I. Like. You.

Friday we stocked the wood as we drove up the canyon and both of us stood in awe as we lit the fire while we watched the sunset. I never expected the flames to be so tall and so hot. Then we tied ourselves to the stake at the rodeo grounds.

And slowly, slowly we burned.

We survived through the next day, hardly realizing anything was wrong. And then Sunday at 4:12, we died, also without us hardly realizing.

I’d like to think we were martyrs, you and I.

You called me sweetie. And I wished you’d never stop. You texted me about shotgun and I sent you one back that took too long to write and probably said nothing at all. We’re just bones and ashes at the bottom of an old campfire, but I can’t get you out of what’s left of me, of us. I never wanted to write about you on my blog. I didn't want you to become just another one of these boys, because baby, don’t you realize, we could’ve been so much more than the lines I write and the texts you don’t. But still you resonate like the last note of a beautiful song. Every time I breathe I taste the rodeo grounds and every time my heart pumps blood I feel the music we danced to on Friday. And every time I listen to John Mayer I hear the hours we drove and the song we belted because sweetie, it’s always been you and me both.

My heart is tired, but that’s old news. That’s old news.

Friday you taught me that we were martyrs. We died for time and unsaid words. Forgotten, lost words. And your mouth was never meant to throw knives. But every time you speak, you carve out the letters of your name in my heart. Friday you taught me that we really do create our own heartbreak. From our expectations and accusations and I always thought driving was our thing. But this time, this time it killed us. Friday you taught me that St. George isn’t a part of my universe, and neither is South Africa. And my heart broke a little as I realized August 6 would come a lot faster than I want.

I don’t know you as well as I thought, or so I’m told. But I think I knew your heart. And I wish time wasn't against us and I wish this last week hadn't happened.

Some would call us hopeless, over, done. Maybe you do too.

But we, you and me both, died a little for what we wanted. What we fought for. What we loved.

So I’d like to call ourselves martyrs.

Forever, HS