Dear Damon,

Don’t throw this out.

I know you, and I know how badly my name on this envelope makes your skin crawl, but hear me out. Well, at least try. If you at least opened the envelope, well, it makes you just as nostalgic about all of this as I am. I love you. I mean, loved you. Are we doing this whole past tense thing? Because truth is, I’m not sure if I’m ready to push our relationship to the past.

So, I’m basically writing to you to clear my head out. In the clearest of words: I’m writing our relationship in a letter to you to tell you the real reason. To tell you where we – I – went wrong. And if this letter gets drastically bad, there’s no way I’m sending it. Just so you know, if you do ever actually get this, it took a lot of guts on my part.

Honestly, I’m not sure whether it was you who screwed me over, or me who screwed you over. But the in-between of it really says something. I think it does anyway. So, Damon dear, my very first true love, this is how the story went.

It’s ridiculously rainy out here. It’s like the universe knew today was the day. The day I would write such a morbid letter reciting a doomed relationship. Besides, since breaking up with you was so easy, this part is bound to be hard.

Reasons why breaking up with you was so easy:
1.
You could do so much better. Seriously, I hear Claire Watts is willing to wait by your locker every morning until you stop ignoring her. And she’s much prettier than me. (This is where you would typically disagree. I miss that.)
2.
You make me incredibly insecure. The statement is just that. You’re the most popular guy in school and I’m the editor of the school paper. I may be well liked but that’s not going to get me a love letter from the likes of you.
3.
You already knew it was coming. I won’t blame you for that. We both knew this relationship wouldn’t last, and if I didn’t break it off, you would’ve. I think. And it’s been weeks where it was easy to tell that I was tentative about the relationship going further. Besides, I knew I was going to get screwed over sooner or later.

I lied. Breaking up with you is the hardest thing I have ever done.

We met at Caroline Park’s New Year’s Party. Do you remember that? Of course you do, it’s particularly hard to forget. I spilled my beer on you; you asked me if I wanted to take a drive with you. Apparently, you weren’t in the drinking mood and I was fun company. Your buddies were in the drinking mood though.

I think the first night of our relationship foreshadowed the end.

That night, I agreed to leave the party with you (right now, I’m realizing that agreeing to leave with you sounds impeccably stupid). The place was claustrophobic in its self and all my friends were busy. You said your friends were busy, too. They were all too drunk to hear when you left, and even though you were the designated driver you assured me they’d find their way back home. I should have protested.

I didn’t. Truth is: I wanted to spend time alone with you desperately. Even if it was as simple as taking a ride in your beat up Honda Civic, I wanted to do it. I won’t say it had anything to do with your personality, honestly, because I barely knew you. Well, I knew you, but I didn’t really, really know you. You were, however, the hottest guy I had ever seen. And this was something worthy writing about. Nothing interesting ever happened to me, and I wasn’t about to waste an opportunity just because your friends were complete imbeciles.

“How’s this month’s Ink coming around?” You asked me as you started the car, and I think I almost had a heart attack in surprise. I didn’t even think you knew my name, let alone that I was the editor of the school paper. Unlike most school papers, people actually read our issues because our articles weren’t school-permitted. Literally, I had no boundaries. And as popular as the paper might be, I didn’t think that Damon Carter read the paper. Honestly, I wasn’t even sure you were literate.

“Pretty good. I love writing, but being the editor is a dull job.”

“Tell me about it. I love the game, but being captain of the football team isn’t as great as it seems.”

“It isn’t?” Because honestly, it sounds pretty great.

“I’m on the debate team, too,” You explained. “And the team rivalry sucks. Being captain of the football team just makes my debate teammates resentful.” My dear, ten minutes ago I thought you were illiterate, but then you went ahead and informed me that you’ve won national recognitions in debate.

The amount you were already growing on me scared the utter crap out of me.

We talked the entire night. And I must admit it was possibly the strangest experience of my life.

“You actually liked Romeo and Juliet?” I asked, unbelievingly. You turned the reddest I have ever seen you. It was adorable. You turned your eyes to the road, as if driving needed your whole focus. What, you needed to avoid hitting the invisible cars on the road at 3 AM?

It’s okay. I found it incredibly attractive that you actually enjoyed Shakespeare’s most immature tragedy. And I didn’t even like it. But I’m warning you for your future in hitting on girls: I only liked it because I’m a literary geek.

“It was his most beautifully written play.” Which means you actually read Shakespeare. I think when you said that…that’s when I fell in love with you.

Later that night, we ended up making out against your car outside my house. Your lips were sweet- they tasted as if you had licked a lollipop before you kissed me. You were so rough you were gentle, and even though nothing we did that night implied love of any kind, you seemed just as attracted to me as I was to you. That night, you helped me sneak in through my window without breaking my ankle. I applaud you on that, by the way.

Before saying goodnight, you leaned down and touched your nose to mine. “Do you want to have coffee after school tomorrow?” I probably shouldn’t have said yes so excitedly.

Regardless, I went out with you. Perhaps it was my mistake.

(Also, that night, Charlie Fern and Cory Roberts, your best friends in the entire world, died in a drunk driving accident. I’d never even met your best friends, Damon, before they died and killed an old man along with them.)

“Damon Carter, Lydia? Honestly, you can’t do worse.” Travis said, over the phone. I had called him immediately after you asked me out for coffee.

“I did do a lot worse.” I reminded him, darkly. “Are you forgetting Carl Freeman who turned out to be dating three other girls at the same time as me?” Yes, the thing with Carl Freeman wasn’t a rumor.

“He was nice,” Travis said, meekly.

“What about your girlfriends?” I retorted. “I never like them and I never have a say in them.”

“Not the same,” Travis drawled. “You just don’t like them because you think they looked like whores.”

“They do!” I argued. Really, they did. I won’t lie and say that I didn’t have a more-than-friends mentality for Travis right then, but afterward? I never thought of him that away ever again. Falling in love changes things. You never know the things you really want until they suddenly turn up. Then you can’t get enough of it.

I couldn’t get enough of you.

“Whatever.” Travis said and we dropped the whole conversation entirely.

The Monday after we had coffee together, I opened my locker to find a crumpled piece of paper stretched out with two magnets on either side. I knew it was your handwriting from sixth grade Science class. See, I’m just as lame as you. Well, not exactly, because the paper said:

Roses aren’t always red,
Violets are never blue (they’re called VIOLETS),
But I sure as hell want to go out with you.

It wasn’t signed, but I knew. I was your official girlfriend from that point forward. There’s no other way to say it. You literally swept me off my feet.

Our relationship was meant to be casual, but it was far from that. I thought we would break up in a week, at max, two. After all, I didn’t want to be in a relationship when I first met you. You, on the other hand, seemed to be born to be in one. You were prepped with all the corny pick-up lines, the handholding without sweating, and the romantic one-liners that made me blush. Ironically enough, we were still going strong at the end of the first month. We were immediately comfortable with each other. We ate lunch together with your football team and their respective flavors-of-the-week. (By the way, those girls were nice. Before they got dumped or cheated on, at least.) We went out together most nights. (After I did homework on the bleachers during your football practice.) You proofread my essays. (You were a bigger grammar freak than I was; that’s scary, love.) As far as I was concerned, things were certainly getting un-casual, much too quickly.

I fit easily into the crook of your neck. I only came up to your neck anyway. It was perfect.

Travis told me I was acting like a bimbo and was acting stupidly on my part, which might hold true, but I didn’t believe him. See, Travis and I had been best friends since first grade. We did nothing apart. But suddenly, we were always apart.

It wasn’t fair, Damon. It wasn’t fair that I was suddenly your best friend and you were mine. You needed a replacement for your dead best friends, but I didn’t. I still had Travis, but I ignored my best friend duty because I was always on full-time girlfriend, part-time best friend duty for you.

It sounds selfish on paper. Sorry about that.

Do you remember February 19th? Well, you probably remember the incidents of the day, but not the actual date. Travis and I were having an argument about you next to the vending machine and you were watching us. According to you, Travis was “leaning in for a kiss” and before he could “get his lips on your girl” you punched him in the nose.

You broke my best friend’s nose February 19th. Travis and I were not best friends after that. He made the conscious effort to forgive me for having an impulsive boyfriend, but we were just never close afterward. All my friends have forgiven me. But it just isn’t the same.

So that happened.

“I don’t get it, Damon.” I told him, quietly, after I tried my best to apologize to Travis, who had been bleeding heavily from the punch. “Why do you have to be so emotional about this?”

“Wouldn’t you?” You asked, as if what he did was the obvious course of action to anyone. I certainly wouldn’t have punched your best friend in the nose, even if they were still alive.

But regardless, we stayed together. Because I loved you. You quoted Dickens to me, you won baseball games and then dedicated the wins to me, and you sang the goddamn Beatles to me (even though you were a horrible singer).

Exactly a month afterward, you invited me to your house. You didn’t mention your parents were gone, but they were. So I didn’t get to meet them like I’d wanted to. You’d already met mine, so I was hoping, all embarrassment aside, I could meet yours. Because meeting parents is a huge milestone in relationships. On the bright side, I met your hamster. You named his Mr. Hamster in the third grade and loved him just as much as you liked me.

He’s very cute.

On March 31st, it was Senior Skip Day. You need to know that this day was the best day of my life up to this point. We went to the arcade in town the first half of the day with the entire class, but skipped the other activities after. You took me to the movies and we watched a crap high school flick that was at least funny. Spoiler: the guy got the girl back and he raised his grades to straight As (How do they do that, by the way- raise grades from F’s to A’s? I can barely keep my A- in AP English, and I’m the editor of the school paper).

We walked out of the theaters in silence.

“That was…” I had no words. Neither did you, because we both burst out in hysterical laughter. Then, you abruptly stopped and took out a rumpled piece of paper out of your pocket. You unfolded it and I suddenly had a flashback to the poem you had once written me.

“Nine out of ten relationships in high school don’t work and end in heartbreak, broken limbs, divorce, or dead hamsters,” You told me, your voice absolutely trembling. Who knew the captain of the football team could ever be nervous? Also… that was a strange statistic. “But I love you. And I’m determined ours won’t end that way.” I remained silent. The gesture was unnecessarily elaborate, but I tried my best to appreciate it. There was a beat of silence, and I think I saw a bead of sweat glisten on your forehead.

“I love you, too.” I said, quietly, after a moment. Because, really, I’d loved you ever since you revealed your love for Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet.

On April 15th, your team won a particularly difficult game. We went to the victory bonfire afterward. I don’t get baseball and I certainly don’t enjoy watching it, but you seemed happy. Then, things rapidly degenerated. You got ridiculously drunk on beer and I took you home because I was afraid- afraid for you… but mostly afraid of you. You were so angry and you never gave a reason why. I was so stupid that I went ahead and threatened to break up with you. I finally realized that you were drunk beyond even caring. That was when I met your dad. He was the one who opened the door.

When he saw the state you were in, he didn’t look surprised. That ticked me off.

“Your son walks in drunk off his ass and you’re just sitting there drinking coffee like this is ordinary?” I yelled at his face. I regretted it immediately when I saw the state of his face.

“It is.” He sat there, silently, looking at me with a glassy expression. I took off my sweatshirt that was soggy from the pounding rain outside and sat down next to your father. He told me everything, complete with silent tears and unneeded snot.

Turns out- your mother’s dying of leukemia. Thanks for the heads up. Really, I appreciate it. You were too drunk to actually remember anything that night or anything that had occurred.

Give me some credit: please don’t dismiss me as cruel. I waited a week for you to show any signs of wanting to tell me. You apologized for getting drunk that night and told me it was just a bout of random mood swings. It wasn’t a bout of random mood swings and you knew it. The dramatic irony was that you didn’t know I knew too.

Fun times, really.

I broke up with you a week after. Could I be anymore of a black-hearted soul? The answer: nope.

Look, I can hardly confront my own emotions, how can I heal yours? My life is hard enough without a boyfriend with a nearly dead mother. I don’t need the complications. Letting me into the relationship without telling me was selfish. I know it’s not your fault she’s sick, but it’s certainly not mine either. And before I fell for you, I should have known. I should have known that your mother was off dying in a hospital bed while we were making out.

Maybe the outcome would have been different.

How am I supposed to deal with somebody whose mother is dying when all I’m trying to do is pass AP Calc with a B-? I told you that college was going to screw us over, so we might as well break it off now. I’ll give you some credit too. You cried.

I love you I love you I love you. This letter is ruining my life, by the way. I’ve turned out to be creatively masochistic.

God, I’m so goddamned stupid. Your mother could be dying right this moment, and I’m sitting here writing a letter about why we broke up when you probably don’t even give a damn why– Hold on, I’m getting a text message.

It’s from you. Dear god, I feel like I’m subject to all the clichés of the world. I mean, come on? My first love happens to have a mom with cancer? That has to be a book somewhere. And then I get a text message from you while writing you a letter?

Can we talk? It says. I love you. Okay, so wait; maybe you do give a damn. So with my trembling thumbs I typed three fateful words to you into the phone keyboard, and before I had a chance to backspace, I pressed send. I don’t even think of the consequences.

Because, really? I love you. I will probably always love you. And even if you’re the condescending jerk who has the utter nerve to punch my best friend in the nose, even if you’re the obnoxious snob when it comes to talking to my sister’s husband, even if you’re the asshole who brags about his latest conquest, you’re still that wonderful guy who slipped me an anonymous love poem in my locker. You’re still the one who held me when I cried over the drunk kids who died in a car accident. And you’re still the one who told me that you loved me despite the overwhelming statistics against the probability of high school relationships lasting.

Even though nine out of ten high school relationships end in heartbreak, broken limbs, divorce, or dead hamsters, I still plan on loving you – even if Mr. Hamster dies a dreadful death.

Sorry, Mr. Hamster.

And while I didn’t want a relationship when I first met you, I want one now… with you. It’s always been you.

The line is thin between common sense and love. I should let you go before you hurt me. Because you will, you know. Your mom will die and you’ll be sad, and things will fall apart. But you’re worth getting hurt for.

Love,
Lydia

P.S. This might have possibly been the worst letter in the history of letters.

P.P.S. I never stopped loving you. Really.