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Wyatt
I hadn’t slept well in two days. Two agonizing days since I left Tilly’s apartment. I had thought I’d hear from her that day but then remembered she would be working for most of the weekend. My mind was a jumbled mess of anger, hurt, and utter embarrassment.
For years, I’d sat down at my desk in Norway and written her letter after letter. And now I knew that when Tilly received them, she’d stuffed them in a box and went on with her day. That’s how little I meant to her.
Maybe I was chasing a dream that could never and would never be realized. Tilly and I were ‘together’ but what did that even mean? Could I be with someone who obviously loved me less than I loved her? And that’s assuming she loved me at all.
For years, I felt so guilty about not telling Tilly about my family’s move that I refused to see anything negative about her. I carried the weight of our downfall completely on my shoulders, not wanting to blame her for anything—even ignoring me as I poured my heart out month after month. I had, indeed, placed her on a pedestal, letting myself sink so that she could breathe free.
But now, all the resentment and anger that I’d trapped inside the recesses of my heart had clawed their way out, and I wasn’t sure how to put them back in, or better yet, how to set them free. I didn’t know what Tilly wanted, but for now, I just wanted space to figure out what I wanted from all of this. And to know if waiting for her had been the right decision after all.
Or, then again, maybe the lack of sleep was just fucking with my head.
No way to be sure.
“Campus mail,” Jeremy said, walking into our room, placing one envelope on my chest as I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling.
It was Tilly’s handwriting.
Sitting up, I stared at the pink envelope with my name written in purple marker. I’d be lying if I said that a huge part of me didn’t want to rip it to shreds and walk it down the hall to the recycling room on my floor—to mix the pieces of her letter with all the other papers, bottles, and cans that lined those huge, plastic bins. That way, there’d be no way to ever piece together her words, no way to be pulled back into the infatuation I realized I’d had for years of my life.
And maybe that would be for the best.
But the other part of me, the bigger part, the hopelessly-in-love-with-Tilly part, wanted to tear it open and read what she had to say—what she finally had to say.
That part won.
Sticking my finger into the gap of the sealed envelope, I ripped it open. Lined paper, torn from a notebook, was folded and tucked inside, a heart drawn on the part that faced me. Holding my breath, I opened the paper and read Tilly’s words.
Dear Wyatt,
I have no idea if you’ll read this. Frankly, I wouldn’t blame you one bit if you decided to toss it in the trash—that’s honestly what I deserve after how I treated you. But this is something I have to do. I have to tell you what’s in my heart…even if you never actually read the words I’ve scribbled on this paper.
I know you think I don’t care enough, Wyatt. And honestly, if I put myself in your shoes, that’s what I’d see, too. But the truth is, I’ve never loved anyone the way that I love you…and I’m going to prove it.
I didn’t read your letters, this is true. But what you don’t know is that I did keep a journal the entire time that you were gone. And I asked my mom to send that along with your letters. I asked her to send it so that I could bring myself back to where I was when your letters were sent—my frame of mind, what I was thinking, feeling—everything. I needed to reconnect to the Tilly that I was in high school to reconcile my feelings for you now.
I can never go back in time and read your letters when they deserved to be read. I can never go back in time the way that Matilda the Magic can, even though I would give anything to do just that. I can give you absolute control of my heart. I can place it in the palm of your hands, even though I’ll be giving you the power to crush it.
Because I realized that without you, it’s crushed already.
You sent me exactly twenty-one letters. So, for the next twenty-one days, I’m going to tear out an entry from my journal and drop it off at the front desk of your dorm on my way to my morning classes. The idea is terrifying—gut wrenching, actually, but it’s something I have to do. Because you deserve it, Wyatt.
You deserve to know how much I missed you. And not only that, but you deserve to know how I ached for you every day. Because I did, Wyatt. Even if it doesn’t seem like it now. Your leaving the country and my life changed me forever.
But you coming back into my life? I’m just now grasping the absolute gravity of that—of your determination, of the fact that you never gave up on us when I did. And I’m finally realizing that I will always be grateful that—even if things between us will never be healed—I had the gift of you once again. And it’s something I will always treasure. Just like I will always treasure YOU.
I will eventually put into words what your semester project means to me but know that I spent hours reading every single word and savoring the illustrations—of seeing myself through your eyes. It is, indeed, magical.
But first, the journal entries. Because you deserve to know how deeply you are loved.
Because you are, Wyatt.
You are truly loved.
I don’t deserve you, but I love you all the same.
Yours forever,
