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 13th 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
