This is a love letter that I wrote for my love on Valentine's day. As a high shool couple, who knows how long we are going to last...but I'm going to make sure that he is loved and heard through all the world's extraneous noise! Now, on to convincing my asian parents to let me formally date him...
I’m
writing this the day of the 2/11 physics scare. I can’t see shit and my eyes
are puffy and I feel like hurling, but every thought of you just makes me feel
so much better. If we break up by the day this will get to you, I will be sad,
but know that you are the only one I that I will ever love, ever. I swear on
it. What you are about to read in this culmination of my thoughts is going to
be from the heart (and might just be a little scary and descriptive), but it’s
all real. I solemnly swear that none of this is a lie. And be sure to read this
letter in one of the tones of all time.
Hello, ▉▉! It seems like it’s the first Valentine’s day we get to spend together. The
history of valentines day is just dumb—who gives two shits if some Roman priest
married people?—but it’s become such a nice tradition that we just call it
Valentine’s day for no reason. My guy Columbus sailed so long and quite almost
died and his celebratory day was revoked from him, but a random priest married
people and he got an international holiday 1
in his name. Doesn’t seem fair, doesn’t it? But the memories still last, so
that’s fire.
I
really don’t remember the day I met you. I quite literally gained consciousness
last year. I quite vaguely remember hearing your name in junior high and seeing
you in the hallways of the asylum-arse hallway where the smart-alecks roam. Oh,
yes. It was at math club. You were one of the Caucasians that were very studious
at that time, and I was a random idiot that did nothing and wanted nothing in
life. 2 As
inconspicuous as you were years ago, going into high school changed the game.
Last
year, I just stayed in random teacher’s rooms. I was a stupid freshman last
year—my grades were horrible, my rank sucked, and I quite literally had a
number of friends that I could count on a single hand—and I think how I spent
my time reflected that. Wait, I’m not sure if this was last year or not; my
memory is literally deteriorating. Or maybe I need sleep. Visible shrug. But
that was when I came across a table where good old Shaochen Liu was sitting.
There you were.
Now
is the time to point out that I don’t have a personality. My personality is a conglomerate
(or agglomerate?) of the people-who-I’ve-interacted-with’s personalities. 3 It’s evident—when I meet you in the mornings, I’m docile; when I get to
my chaotic friends, I’m equally as chaotic. Lmao. (said [sounded out] with a
straight face, like ɫʌmoʊ) If you are conflicted, I’m sorry. I have so
many problems. Lmao.
You
were, to me, sitting there with your legs on the seat and staring intently at
the switch, a regular human being. I had nothing against you, but I realized
that you were somebody that I’d like getting to know better. Like
friends-and-connections-wise. 4
When I started talking to you,
though, I realized that you didn’t give three shits about what everyone else
thought about you (what I’ve heard from people. Don’t worry—nothing bad) and
that you have a sense of humor akin to the likes of mine. 5 I started to maybe-kinda-ish like you from that point. You were someone
that I didn’t feel tension next to. 6
That
was when I started to acknowledge my like(?) towards you. You would just
somehow appear so much better as I went along with school. 7 I would go on to tell a few of my close friends about you (sorry) and
they urged me on. Thanks guys. Y’all are invited. Through a series of fortunate
events, I end up here today, with you. I know that this is fuckinh high school
and I’d have to battle through so much fucking odds of life to keep it this
way, but there’s no use in dwelling on what could happen. The time is now.
Why
do I like you, you may or may not ask? Well, I like you because you are nice. I
like you because you are kind. I like you because you are so cool. 8 I like you for many reasons. And you’re also tall and smart. Fuck.
I
get nervous around you. Really, really nervous. Like palm-sweating, vein-pounding-in-my-head-nervous. 9 It’s why I dread going to the Spanish hallway in the mornings, but in the
end, it quite literally becomes the reason I go to school every day instead of
sleeping in. It’s one of the only times I get to spend time with my cutie and Nneka,
and I love it so much because the rest of my day is so nice. Yes, y’all make up
my day. It actually gives me so much dopamine. Yes, I do actually get so sad
when you’re not there.
I’m
really aware that I don’t show a lot in my face at school. I remember this girl
called Danielle tell me that I chronically look mad, which isn’t false, but I
don’t want it to be a hindrance toward anything. I just want to get this day
over with, to just relax and sleep. I’m still working on my smile and how my
eyebrows tilt too. It isn’t bad, but it could be so much better. I digress,
though. This was supposed to be a love letter.
Alright,
on to the sloppy glazing!! Here is an excerpt from a short story I was going to
write for NEHS:
There’s a guy that I really
like. His face is neither severe nor ornate—his expressions are somewhere in
the middle where every existent perfection meets at a point. His eyes are
bright and brown, eager and restful, alert and tranquil, all at the same time,
and every strand of his hair is chiseled like he was ameliorated from
Michaelangelo’s marbled sculptures, decades of skill conveyed in one dimension
that combine to form a masterpiece of the eons. Every movement of the pick and
the hammer on the white hard marble held feeling, heart, and soul, conveying
masterpiece after masterpiece that could never be replicated on anyone else.
His eyes are naturally big and
downturned, with a gentle glow emanating from his shiny brown eyes, his lashes
a curling perfection against the frame of his head. His nose is shapely and
fitting--neither Greek, Roman, American Indian, Semitic, Mongolian, or
Negro—but what can be called an absolute masterpiece right on Earth. His
existence transcends the very fabrics of feeling, wiping any biases off the
face of the planet when he flashes me a gentle, welcoming smile. His eyes
smiled in line with the creases of his mouth, showing his pretty teeth to the
world that begged for mercy at his sight.
His stature is tall, not lanky
nor husky, but huggable and perfect in which the angle his eyes see me in makes
the LEDs dance and shine with bright sparkles that somehow manage to appear in
the periphery of my vision. Heat and warmth rush into my cheeks when we walk
side by side in the bustling hallways of every day. In this state, all my heard
turns wholly to him, eating the vision up with greed and sorrow, unwilling for
him to go to class but also unwilling (by my ego) to reach for his hand and
walk.
Nevermind, fuck, that was the whole thing. Um. How awkward. 10
Do
you know the saying that… Nevermind, I forgot it already. I’ll update this
script if I remember it. It’s where it’s like… you don’t know that THE FUCK you
were doing with your life before you met someone? Yeah, that someone was you. I
don’t know what I even felt about romance before I met you. It’s a
life-changer, a 360.
Walking
into the Spanish hallway in the morning, I half-expect you not to be there. If
you are, I reach into my nonexistent pockets to somehow look preoccupied, and
if you aren’t, I’ll sulk and talk to Nneka. They’re so amazing I don’t even
know how to say it. Anyways. When you do come, you have the signature walking
style that I can only attribute to years of fucking your spine up 11 and a gleam in your eye from the
migraine-causing rectangles that they string to the cardboard spray-painted
ceiling.
When
I hug you, you’re so warm. Like you’re a heater. It’s so comfortable. I can’t
iterate that more. I can only hope that it feels the same to you 12
Anyways,
when I’m with you, everything feels a-ok. You are literally the highlight of my
days, and I hesitate so much to avoid you and I feel so empty when you’re gone.
I can’t count the times I have wanted your hug with me, but I digress also.
This letter is turning into… I don’t know what it’s turning into.
I
love you. And I miss you to the moon and back, to the sun and back again. Hell,
I miss you from Andromeda and Betelgeuse to the extents of the observable
universe and then back again. Twice. Thrice. 53 times. My feelings can
be as little as a chemical reaction in my head, to as big as my perception of
the whole world. 13 I don’t give two shits on what you
think of me 14,
so if possible, I’ll keep on loving you.
Please
don’t stop being amazing. I would hate to see you turn into one of those
globble glorps. And I love you. How many times have I said that I love you?
There’s another one. Cool. This is turning into a literary essay. Should I turn
it into the teacher? Nevermind, they can’t hate me more lmao! Love you. 15
Heidy
