(Like how you won’t admit you’re in love with me! And yet you’ll email me love letters!)
Well, birthday girl, how’s this for a love letter: I’m head over heels for you, Leah. And if you ever want to try out one of those scary four-letter L words on me, I promise I’ll say it back.
xoxo,
Abby
FROM: SIMONIRVINSPIER@GMAIL.COM
TO: LEAHONTHEOFFBEAT@GMAIL.COM
DATE: SEP 20 AT 3:13 PM
SUBJECT: YOU WERE BORN!!!
HEY, LEAH, IT’S YOUR BIRTHDAY!!!!!! So here’s your birthday email, not to be confused with your birthday texts or the voicemail I left you at 9:20 a.m. or the one I’m definitely going to leave you at 9:20 p.m. (phone alarm is locked and loaded). Well, I hope you’re out on the town right now, living that charmed nineteen-year-old midafternoon life. God, it’s so weird not seeing you on your birthday. I want to hear about everything. How are your classes—how’s sociology? How’s everything with Abby? Did you talk to Nick? He said he was going to call you early, because Taylor wants to go to the symphony orchestra in Boston, which she apparently thinks is a Shawn Mendes concert or something, because she’s insisting they get there two hours early “just in case.” And Nick’s just like, “oh well, gotta keep the girlfriend happy.” Leah, my jaw dropped. GIRLFRIEND?? Did you know about this development? Because I sure the fuck didn’t. Our Nick, sealing the deal with Taylor freaking Metternich. What a JOURNEY.
Aaaaaand speaking of shitshows (sorry, I realize this email is like 90 percent gossip, but I keep forgetting to text you this golden information), have you heard anything about Garrett and Morgan? I can’t 100 percent confirm this one, since it’s coming secondhand from Nick, but apparently Morgan was up at Tech last weekend? Morgan Hirsch at Georgia Tech??? There can only be one explanation for this, and it starts with M and rhymes with takeout. Of course, Garrett’s currently denying everything, but Bram’s working on getting more info, so stay tuned!
Anyway, I miss your face and your voice and god I wish you were here with me at Haverford, doodling in the margins of all my notes. And I hope you’re having the best birthday ever. I love you so much, beautiful Leah, and I’m so glad you were born.
Love,
Simon
FROM: BLUEGREEN118@GMAIL.COM
TO: HOURTOHOUR.NOTETONOTE@GMAIL.COM
DATE: SEP 23 AT 4:14 PM
SUBJECT: GUESS HOW BADLY I MISS YOU
Dear Jacques,
I hate everything. I hate every white square on my calendar. I doubt you’re even past Newark, but you might as well be halfway to Mars, because either way, I can’t kiss you again for another twelve days.
Can we just rewind to Friday afternoon? I keep scrolling back to your text saying you were finally pulling into Penn Station (look, I’m not trying to be dramatic about this, but it was starting to feel like your train was being pulled by a single elderly mule). But then you stepped into the concourse in your Haverford sweatpants, looking so bowled over by the entire concept of Manhattan.
Simon, I don’t know if you noticed the giant Oreo donut sign outside Krispy Kreme, but you ran straight past it, into my arms (greatest compliment of my life, hands down). And then I held your face and kissed you in the middle of Penn Station, because apparently public kissing is a thing I do now. What’s your deal, Simon Spier? Are you made of magnets or what?
Anyway, now I’m sitting here staring at my laptop, trying to find the words to explain how it felt to have you here again. I . . . don’t even have a frame of reference for it. Like, I keep thinking about Garrett, and how it’s been a month since I’ve seen him. And that sucks, don’t get me wrong, but it’s like going a month without waffles or something. Not seeing you until your fall break? That’s like twelve days without water.
And now I miss you even more, because you’re all over my dorm room. The Oreo boxes in my trash can, the song lyrics on my whiteboard. Even this laptop. How am I ever going to use it for homework when it just makes me miss watching your absolute shitshow top thirty life hack videos on YouTube? (For the record, though, I do NOT miss those shitshow videos. I just miss you leaning your head on my shoulder while we watched those shitshow videos.)
And then there’s my bed. How am I ever going to sleep there again without remembering how little sleeping we did in it?
Love,
Blue
FROM: HOURTOHOUR.NOTETONOTE@GMAIL.COM
TO: BLUEGREEN118@GMAIL.COM
DATE: SEP 23 AT 8:19 PM
SUBJECT: PRETTY SURE I MISS YOU MORE
Abraham. Romeo. Greenfeld. I think I need a minute here. (Not for that. Mind out of the gutter. I just have to, like, catch my breath. Or something.) I mean, THAT? That was a love letter. Bram, I’m blushing. This is junior year all over again. I feel like my secret email boyfriend just told me he imagines me fantasizing about sex (HEY BLUE, REMEMBER THAT?).
I swear, everyone thinks you’re so freaking innocent, but then you sign into gmail and it’s like BAM. Innuendo. Sex grenade. How little sleeping we did?? I mean, you’re not wrong, but WOW. And the best part’s how you had this whole food itinerary, with the Dinosaur Bar-B-Que restaurant and the hipster ice cream parlor. Which I’m sure are delicious (who doesn’t love eating dinosaurs?). But peanut butter toast and never leaving your dorm room tasted pretty great, too. ☺
A FEW IMPORTANT CORRECTIONS. First things first: “I always wanted to stumble into someone like you.” That, sir, is no song lyric. It’s a book quote (does this mean there’s a book on this earth you haven’t read yet??). Second things second, shitshow?? Are you saying you don’t need a succulent vase made out of a spray-painted doll’s head?
God, I’m so bad at this. Here I am going on about dinosaurs and YouTube and 5-Minute Crafts, when all I really
