So, I knew about Kellan being gay. I’m thrilled to hear he’s not “into clowns.” (God, I’d fucking love to know how that conversation went down.) I’m really happy for Simon. And jealous, of course, because I’m a territorial asshole. But I know he deserves a gay guy best friend, too, especially one who isn’t a train ride away. I do worry about him. He’s been kind of a mess since August, hasn’t he? Garrett says Bram’s okay—he’s just kind of distracted and glued to his phone a lot. I’m sure it’s fine if we text him. The whole thing’s just a bummer. I sort of wonder if one of them should just transfer or something. Though, Simon definitely seems more upbeat this week, so maybe I’m just being dramatic. But yeah—I don’t know how they do it either. I’d have a very hard time being that far away from you.
God, I keep going back to what you said about us and physical contact. Not going to lie, Suso, that hit me like a brick to the face. You’re not wrong. I just didn’t really think about it until you said it. I guess it’s automatic at this point. I see your hand, and I have to hold it. Your mouth exists, so I have to kiss it.
You know you terrify me, right?
Sincerely,
LCB
FROM: BLUEGREEN118@GMAIL.COM
TO: HOURTOHOUR.NOTETONOTE@GMAIL.COM
DATE: NOV 16 AT 10:02 AM
SUBJECT: THE EDGE OF NINETEEN
Dear Jacques,
Well, it’s the last day of your first year of adulthood (soon to be the first day of the last year of your teens—is your head spinning yet?). I can’t believe how long I’ve known you. I can’t believe how recently I met you. My brain keeps scrolling back through all our Novembers, and I don’t know how you do it, Simon, but you make memories feel like time travel. Everything uploads in high-definition when it comes to you.
Remember last year? Homecoming, when we didn’t dance. And Nick’s cabin afterward, when we didn’t sleep. Or November of junior year, when I told my secret email boyfriend I imagine him fantasizing about sex. (Do I remember? Simon. You know I basically stopped breathing until you replied, right?) Or sophomore year, when Ms. Warshauer announced a pop quiz about Chaucer. You told her she was the cause by which you die, and she laughed so hard she had to leave the room for ten minutes.
And then there was ninth grade. Simon, you want to know what I was doing four years ago today? I was stumbling headfirst into the biggest, most all-consuming crush of my fourteen-year-old life. We had biology first period, Ms. Hensel’s class, and we were partnered together for the hereditary lab. Do you remember that? It was that truly batshit assignment where we had to flip coins to determine the genotype of our fictional baby. It was the first time we’d ever talked, though I was mostly trying not to openly gape at you.
I remember just how it felt. My rabbit heartbeat, my whirlpool stomach, the way my brain fogged over every time your mouth moved. Of course, I’d noticed you before then. Scrawny freshman Simon Spier, with your moppy hair and thick glasses. You always looked really startled and pleased when anyone talked to you, which was so strange and endearing (Simon, everyone wanted to talk to you. I don’t think you’ve ever understood your own gravitational pull).
So there I was, making a baby with this unbearably cute boy (who had all these very strong opinions about coin toss terminology: “How is that a tail, Bram? How? It’s the freaking front of the eagle!”). I’ll never forget when we had to translate all those genotypes into phenotypes. Our giant-nostriled disaster baby. And, Simon, you loved him. You loved every recessive sprout of hair on his ears. You held my illustration up next to your face, beaming, and it was game over for me, Spier. You’ve had my heart ever since.
I really wish I could be there tomorrow. I know we’ll both be home in five days, but it just sucks. Every moment we miss is so dumbfoundingly hard. And these four stupid years feel like forever. But I plan to be in love with you for so long, Simon Spier. We’ll make those four years feel like nothing. Not a blip.
Love,
Blue
FROM: HOURTOHOUR.NOTETONOTE@GMAIL.COM
TO: BLUEGREEN118@GMAIL.COM
DATE: NOV 18 AT 7:12 PM
SUBJECT: I’M STILL JUST . . . HOLY SHIT
Abraham Louis Greenfeld, you are UNBELIEVABLE. I just scrolled back through our emails, and I can’t stop smiling. You’re such a freaking con artist, you know that? God. Bram. Best fucking surprise of my life. I don’t think my feet have even hit the floor yet.
Bram, I’ll never get over the sight of you on my bed, cross-legged, in flannel freaking pajama pants, reading a textbook. A TEXTBOOK. Like it’s some regular homework night. And I’m just standing in the doorway, fucking speechless. Bram, I thought you were a ghost (probably because I’d just come back from a ghost tour, AS YOU KNEW PERFECTLY WELL, BECAUSE YOU’RE IN CAHOOTS WITH MY FREAKING ROOMMATE).
Like. I’m just trying to wrap my head around the fact that you two have been planning this all month. You guys are the sneakiest little sneaks on earth. I still can’t believe you SLID INTO KELLAN’S DMs, talked him into bringing me on a ghost tour, and then talked my freaking customs person into smuggling you into my dorm room. Such deception!!!! By the way, Kellan and Grover are so fucking pleased with themselves right now. They legit won’t stop high-fiving each other (high-fiving! Guys, this is why people think you’re a pair of straight dudes!) (okay, so the high fives are a little finger-twiney upon further observation, but STILL).
Anyway, it was perfect. It was just the most perfect birthday imaginable. You’re a really great person to be in love with, you know that?
Love,
Simon
FROM: ABBYSUSO710@GMAIL.COM
TO: LEAHONTHEOFFBEAT@GMAIL.COM, SIMONIRVINSPIER@GMAIL.COM, BRAM.L.GREENFELD@GMAIL.COM, THEREALNICKEISNER@GMAIL.COM, TEMETTERNICH.HARVARD@GMAIL.COM, THE.ORIGINAL.ANGEL.BRO@GMAIL.COM
DATE: NOV 23 AT 4:12 PM
SUBJECT: SQUAD THE F UP
Okay, turkey squad,
