If you’re going to write to me, write like you did this time.
This sentence had perhaps taken me by surprise the most. Realizing he hadn’t dismissed me immediately but had instead given me something to work with — something I could actually respond to — created a strange fluttering sensation in my stomach.
P.S. Don’t slip in coffee. That’s a fucking stupid way to get hurt.
I wrinkled my nose at the casual bluntness of his parting words. They made it seem like he was irritated but the suspicion he’d merely used this irritation to disguise his concern had taken root in my thoughts.
My giggle echoed through the empty room, only to die away abruptly.
No one had been worried about me getting hurt for a long time and the empty feeling I so skillfully ignored most days hit me with vengeance. My chest ached and I dragged in a shuddering breath, the hand still holding the letter sinking onto my thigh.
Loneliness settled in, like a fist closing around my heart. Exhaling, I consciously pushed those thoughts aside,shoving them into the farthest corner of my mind and refusing to examine them too closely.
I dragged my notepad out from under a pile of clutter and stared at the lined, blank page, suddenly frantic to keep myself busy, to distract my brain.
My gaze darted around the room, trying to locate a pen amidst the usual disarray. I jumped up with a triumphant “Yes!” when I spotted one on top of the microwave.
Settling into my chair once more, I let the pen hover over the page for a moment before deciding to let my thoughts run free.
Hi Sasha,
First of all, I would like to formally object to the allegation suggesting I “have a lot to say.” I only have a medium amount to say. Maybe you just don’t have enough to say? It’s okay if you’re kind of boring. Not everyone can be as uniquely interesting as I am.
I paused, staring at the words I’d written. Could I really say that?
Yes, I decided.You don’t want him to think you’re a doormat.
Trying not to overthink it, I put pen to paper again.
You read my letter which means technically you’re accepting we’re friends now. I don’t make the rules.
Now, let me tell you about Greg. You might want to sit down for this gripping tale. Greg hired me to write his dating profile. Yes, people actually do that.
I’m good at words and I needed rent money and it turns out people will pay you to make them sound like the version of themselves they wish they were. He wanted to sound “appealing,” which apparently has a very specific legal definition I was not aware of.
In my defense, I didn’t realize “avid hiker with a passion for clean eating” counted as fraud when the man’s idea of cardio is walking from the recliner to the fridge during commercial breaks. I might have also implied he was six feet tall. And owned a kayak. And volunteered with marine mammals.
I didn’t think it mattered. I mean — everyone lies online, right? Filters. Angles. Pretending you enjoy hiking so you don’t seem like a swamp creature.
I just … professionalized it. Except the woman he met was a paralegal whose favorite hobby is consequences. And the state of Florida agreed with her.
In my head, it was harmless optimism. In the state of Florida, it was “misrepresentation for financial gain.”
Which I think is a little unfair, because technically all dating websites are misrepresentations for emotional gain.
So now I’m doing community service. And writing to you. Which feels like a bizarre turn of events, because you’re a stranger with better grammar than Greg.
My hand was cramping slightly, so I flexed it as I reread what I’d written so far. Was I oversharing? Probably. But I refused to start over,Sashacould fucking deal with it.
He’d asked, hadn’t he?
The way you write makes me think you’re terrible at small talk. Like if someone said ‘crazy weather lately,’ you’d just stare at them until they questioned their life choices.
You seem very … results-oriented. Direct. Focused. Hands on.
I meant conversationally. I think.
“Oh my God,” I whispered into the silence, covering my face.What the fuck was I doing?