Be careful what you wish for, because you just might get it, said my horoscope on Sunday. I am careful, I am overly cautious when there is no need to be. There is no fun to be had because I’ve never allowed it for fear of judgment and because I self-depreciate too frequently. Two nights ago I woke up nauseous at the thought of never saying anything to you, which is funny for me because I’m so keen on saying everything all at once to anyone who’s willing to listen, but with you I am reserved and ever-careful. I don’t want to be anymore. So I wrote you a note, something short and easy to read in passing, not expecting you to do much with it. I sat at my small writing desk, my room partially illuminated by the dim bathroom light coming from across the hall, and with my favorite pen in hand and a notebook found at the bottom of a box in the cold basement, I tried to find a way to coherently write to you. At first I wrote heavily, violently scratching my pen across the page, sick of carrying around the weight of not knowing for the last two months. I abhor not knowing—not just hate or strongly dislike, but abhor. It is a disgusting feeling to be unsure.
I write such eloquent holiday cards consisting of sentences strung together, cozy and neat, like the freshwater pearls on a necklace I saw at Saks, but in my note to you I couldn’t figure out what to say without sounding like I was back in the fifth grade passing a letter in vain to my crush who said my cursive was nice on a dare. I wrote you ten notes and threw nine away, I wrote your name seven times to figure out what way I liked the letters posed—there was the cursive o; the scribbled version to make it look like I hadn’t given the gesture too much thought; there were letters that all sat unevenly next to each other as if they’d been haphazardly cut from a magazine. I settled on my neatest handwriting for your name and my typical loopy script for mine, each name made of small letters which were formed with a purpose as if to say, “I see you.” I wrote to you on a thin, cream-colored notecard with stars in the top corner that I found on the desk in my sister’s room; this use was better than for groceries or mundane reminders. I worry I have too bleak a disposition for you to like me back—did you notice how the stars alluded to my subtle brightness? And because in the past my notes have been tossed, shoved away, and disregarded, I expected the same from you. But as quickly as I slipped it in your hand you opened it and read it silently to yourself, hunched over as if to hide its contents from the ceiling’s prying eyes, not noticing how my hand was shaking as I gave it to you. Feelings seem confrontational, and so I was told to just hand you the note and say, “Have a nice day!”, but I stood next to you for a moment simply watching the smile on your face as you read it over again, mumbling to nobody in particular. I quietly walked away and don’t know if I came off as disingenuous or too casual, as if I do this sort of thing frequently. If you knew me better, you’d know that I ran away the same way I do when someone reads a Christmas card from me because what is written inside I cannot say aloud without stuttering or forgetting my point when looking directly at the person I care too much about.
I turned back as I walked away, noticing again how you didn’t set my note aside which was laced with like (not yet love) for you to find in case you are like me and pick things apart with calloused fingertips in the middle of the night when you cannot sleep. Every word had a purpose, every letter was drawn with care in case you examine things repetitively as I do for hidden meaning, my name was signed with the idea that you might like to confirm its spelling, and now there is no doubt that my curiosity will receive a definite answer.
