Letter to Hanna

It’s Thursday, Hanna. Days after I got your letter in the mail. I’m writing this again in that little coffee shop I always go to. I have to leave for work soon but I wanted to maybe get in a few words. I saw a photo of you by Jenny and I’ve always loved her photos. I thought of what you wrote me. I had a date last Thursday and I thought it went so well. I had such a good time. I was laughing, dancing in front of this beautiful boy with lashes so long. I don’t understand how he changed his mind between Thursday night and Friday. He’s a ghost now, and in a big-small city like this, I don’t think I will ever see him again. I don’t understand people. I don’t understand men. I wonder if they are heartless. I wonder when falling in love became a weakness. I wonder when vulnerability will stop failing me. Is it so toxic for me to want love? For me to expose myself in this way?

He was holding me and we were laughing. We were both high. He was so impressed with the way I smoked, even though I told him I almost never smoked out of bongs. I felt almost carefree. I hate that every time I feel this way, it inevitably gets stripped away from me. I don’t want to feel bad for being vulnerable. I don’t want to feel weak for wanting love, but that’s how I feel. I want love, for me and for you. I want something great. I believe in something great. I don’t want lacklustre. I want something so bright and powerful that it might consume me but I wouldn’t care. I want good.

I can’t believe I’m still thinking about this boy I went on one date with. I’m not sure why I’m still bothered. He bit my lip as he kissed me, and I wanted so badly to know how he would bite the rest of my body.