Dear you,

I want to tell you something. Well, not really tell, since I’m writing it all down for you. Tell was the wrong word… Of course it was… That was a stupid word to write. That implies opening my mouth and talking to you, and I’m not doing that. I’m not brave enough to do that… But what word would work…? No, wait. I’m distracting myself. I’m good at putting stuff off when I’m scared or don’t want to do something, but I just want to be honest here. I want to say

Bugger.

I’m crap with words. You know I am. I always have been, ever since primary. You always used to tease me for it. You still do sometimes when you’re bored. You’ve always been the one who’s good at… talking and all that stuff. Expressing yourself, that’s what you called it once. See, I do listen…sometimes. Though, you’ve always said that I only listen when it suits me.

But I need to   I want to say

Damn it. How am I meant to tell you this? How can I possibly ‘express myself’ without you thinking I’m a complete and utter freakzoid? It’s just an impossible mission. I mean, you’re so well spoken and stuff, while I use words like ‘freakzoid’. Surely that just sums up the massive difference between us. You’re so cultured and I’m just this…thing that you occasionally allow to ‘bask’ in your presence. That’s another expression I heard you use once.

I bet you’d even make ‘freakzoid’ sound cultured…

I’m letting myself get distracted again. And you know why? It’s because I don’t want to face up to this. I’m avoiding the subject because I don’t want to admit this to you. And why would I ever want to admit this? Why would I ever want to tell you?! It’s wrong, wrong of me, to have these feelings for you. These stupid, uncontrollable feelings.

I want to kiss you tell you how I feel. And I’m going to. I’ve probably scared you off already, so why not say it all now I’m here? Why not just put all that I feel down and wait for the fall-out? I love you, okay?

I love you.

In films, and books, and that kind of thing, they always show love as one of two extremes. Either it’s this…incredible, happy thing, or this cold, painful one. Exaggeration is all over the place. People making something out to be far worse or better than it is in real life. Of course, films would be pretty boring if they didn’t make up a bunch of

The first extreme is the most common. People feel warmth, and they’re glowing with it. Their life is perfect and everything falls into place for them because they love someone who loves them back just as much. Either that or whenever they see ‘the one’ a soundtrack starts in their head- some sappy song about love. Violins and all that crap. I can’t remember. I tend to tune out during those moments… All I know is that everything’s all rosy in their world.

Twee and likely to induce nausea, I know, but also inaccurate.

The other view is dire. Seriously dire.  ‘Woe is me, the world is against me because I fell for someone I shouldn’t, and it’s tearing me up inside that they don’t love me back…’ It’s like: Oh, get a grip. The reason they don’t love you is because you’re forever moaning about how everything is awful. Well, guess what, Einstein: That includes them as well! You’re insulting them by saying that! Also, treating them as if you hate them just to hide the fact that you love them isn’t going to help them realise how much they adore you. More likely they’ll just walk away from you as fast as possible and phone the local mental asylum. You bring your damn misery on yourself.

Pathetic.

Okay, rant over.

But… I see you how I’ve always seen you. You’re not coated in a golden sheen that glimmers whenever I look at you. The sound of your voice isn’t accompanied by a heavenly choir. Though, how annoying would that be? Trying to talk to you and all I can hear is Nothing like that. You’re just…you. My flatmate. That stubborn, posh person who lives with me. The one who tells me off for bad grammar, but will happily wrestle me to the floor during a fight over something stupid like the TV remote. The one who is always smartly dressed, but once threw a handful of flour at me because I dared to use the ‘P’ word.

Since I’m confessing: You’re posh, get over it.

It’s not amazing and lovely. It’s not wretched and painful. It’s…fine. And I’m being realistic about it. I know it’s not going to happen. You’ll never feel the same- it’s just…not to be. That sounds so cliché… But, hey, I’m not deluding myself, here. You’ve been my best friend for ages and damned if I want to risk ruining that by making things weird. But I guess, somewhere along the line, I just…slipped into something more. It was an accident and I have no idea how it happened. I’ve tried to talk myself out of it, but no cigar. It’s nothing you did. Just my own stupidity. But I’m dealing with it.

So there you go.

I love you.

But you’re never finding out. Oh, no! I may not be very smart, but even I know better than to actually give you this stupid pile of letter. It would be pointless and would just make it awkward for both of us in the long run. So, really, I’m helping you by hiding the truth… Now I’m lying to myself as well as you. It’s so easy to get stuck in a habit. So this letter will go with all the others, out of sight and in the bin. Where it belongs and where you can never find out how much of a freakzoid I really am.

Love   Yours

Me