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I lean in further.

“Why does it have to change everything? You will not jeopardize this. There are a lot more people involved in this than just you and me.”

“I’m sorry, Donna, I can’t do it.” The man’s voice is shaking. “I can’t work with her. I can’t spend two weeks lost in nature with her and a camera crew. It’s too much.”

Her. So they are talking about me. What the fuck? What did I ever do to this guy to make him hate me so much that he can’t even work with me? I don’t even know any Wild Planet journalists in Vancouver, and I have never set foot in this office. Whoever he thinks I am, he’s clearly mistaken. And even if, by some divine intervention, I happen to recognize his face, I will not give up this golden opportunity. No, sir. This man, no matter how his sexy voice is, will not get in the way of my future.

The woman sighs. “I’ll call Toronto. I’ll see if they can replace her and spare another journalist, but I doubt it because she’s supposed to be here any minute now.”

Oh, hell no.

I straighten and push the door wide open, coming face-to-face with the most beautiful man I have ever seen. Hazelnut eyes stare right into my soul with an intensity I can’t put into words. His dark-brown waves, which tumble messily onto his forehead, make him look like he just rolled out of bed, despite the fact that I can tell he spent some time styling it just right. Dark stubble sprinkles the sharp angle of his jaw, and my fingers itch to touch it and find out if it’s as soft as it looks.

The words that were about to come blazing out of my mouth are suddenly stuck in my throat. All the fury evaporates from my body in one whoosh, the eavesdropped confessions forgotten. This was clearly a mistake on his part, a misunderstanding. He must have me confused with someone else, because I don’t know this man. I’ve never seen him in my life. If I had, I would sure as fuck remember it. With a face like that?

As I clear my throat, the man rises from his chair and stumbles backward, gripping the edge of the desk like his life depends on it. He looks at me with wide eyes, and his mouth falls open. His skin is as white as a sheet, the perfect portrait of someone who has just seen a ghost.

I frown. Do I look that awful? I know nobody looks their best after a flight, but come on.

Now I feel very self-conscious about not washing my hair this morning. If I’d known I’d be meeting the Canadian version of Sam Claflin, maybe I’d have thought twice about it.

The woman looks at me. “Can I help you?”

I smile, regaining my composure. “You certainly can.” I hold out my hand. “I’m Charlee Fletcher. WP Toronto journalist. It’s very nice to meet both of you.”

Pine Falls, October 6, 2017

Well, hello Charlee,

It’s very nice to meet you and finally put a name to those words.

About that folder: Now I’m legitimately scared. At least now that I know your full name, I’ll be able to rename the one I have on you.

I’m very sorry to hear about your mom. There are no words I can say that will make you feel better. But if you want to talk about it, if you feel like you’re drowning, like you said, you know where to write to me. I think you could literally talk to me about anything, and I would gladly read you. You never bore me. I mean it. You’re the highlight of my week, honestly. I wish I could talk to you every day. Sometimes, I see something that makes me think of you (like the amazing burger I had last week—god, you’d have loved it), and I find myself reaching for my phone to text you and remember that I don’t even have your number. And I know it’s not the goal, you know? This program is about writing, and exchanging numbers would spoil the fun. I don’t even think we’re supposed to write to each other this much, let alone share our names. I guess most of the people in the program send a “here is the article, bye.” But somehow, we ended up here, and I’m not mad about it.

All this to say, never apologize or feel bad for writing me dozens of pages. Know that I’m always happy to receive them.

What do I like about being by myself? Ah, the unanswerable question. Like you, I guess it’s changed and evolved over the years. But it’s a need that’s deeply ingrained in me now that I’m older. I wasn’t always like this, actually. I grew up a very outgoing and social kid, always wanting to meet new friends, wishing so hard to one day belong to an inner circle. You know, those tight-knit friendships where you tell each other everything. Those that last a lifetime. So I went into each friendship with the same enthusiasm, giving it my all every time and ending up disappointed and confused when my eagerness wasn’t reciprocated, or worse, when people made fun of me for being too sensitive, too intense, too weird, too eccentric. Too this, too that. You weren’t enough, I was too much. Funny, right? We never were the right amount.

When you’re just a kid, it starts to pile up. So I started to shut myself off and look for other ways to keep busy, ones that wouldn’t require me to be around people. I never knew my parents. My grandparents raised me, so I asked my grandpa to take me on fishing trips with him on the weekends or go hike a full week when school was off. When he couldn’t, I went to find peace alone in nature. There was no one around me to tell me how I was supposed to be. I would have given anything to be accepted for who I was and have friends like everybody else my age. I thought, “There must be something wrong with me.”

One day, way later, I might have been fourteen or fifteen, one of my teachers asked my grandparents during a parent-teacher conference if I’d ever had a neurophysiological assessment. I didn’t understand why she’d asked that at first. I was doing great at school, and my grades were excellent. She had even suggested at some point that I skip eighth grade. Turns out, I was diagnosed a few months later with what they called “giftedness.” I know, sounds like I’m bragging, but I’m not. It basically means that my emotions are heightened, which leads to extreme sensitivity. It’s easier for me to understand and retain information, which makes me even more curious about the things I don’t know yet.

I’m sure you know kids can be pretty harsh and judgmental, and I find that even now, as a young adult, they’re no better. But at least I have the tools I need to understand myself better and deal with uneducated people. And that’s what matters: the knowledge that there’s nothing wrong with me, that my brain is just not on the same wavelength as neurotypical people. You don’t know how freeing it was to finally put a name to my feelings, my way of thinking and perceiving things. It’s like everything that didn’t make any sense suddenly did. Like I had been trying to put the puzzle pieces together for years, and they were finally fitting.

Those years spent finding ways to busy myself and learning everything I could about the outdoors made me realize that there is nothing I love more than being lost in my own world, between the trees and the sounds of living things around me.

That’s a long story, but it should answer your question.

So I guess what is left to share with you is my name . . . here it is. The moment of truth. Drumroll, please.

Looking forward to your next letter,

Oliver

PS: Emile’s answer was a nice middle finger. I didn’t tell him you were supporting him in his crusade against my family, but when I opened the door at 8 a.m. sharp and saw him speed up, I stopped in front of him with my hands on my hips so he wouldn’t be able to move past me. He raised his finger and shouted, “Va te faire foutre, Reynolds.” Which I believe translates to “Go fuck yourself.” So there you go.

PPS: I was thinking of maybe submitting this article for my mid-terms. Do you think you could maybe give me some more in-depth feedback? Don't hold back.