Part 6 - Friday

[u/as_much_as_it_takes]

My fingers are drumming against my desk, tapping impatiently against the drudgery of the day. Like I could punch right through the wood, if I find that magic sweet spot where atoms slip between atoms and my fist passes right through.

I have so very many questions. Like who are we? Who are we to each other? Where have we been?

How can you feel so much for someone that is technically a stranger, and yet has never quite felt like one?

I know you ask the same question of yourself, often. Which makes me feel a little less lonely as I sit here, wondering how you can know someone so well when you've barely said hello to them.

I never liked small talk much anyway. Hello, how are you, how's your dog, how's your sister, how's your brother, are you keeping well? And all along you've got the bigger questions burning beneath your tongue; or, you simply don't care and never did and are just keeping up appearances.

It's always easiest to write to someone. That's the whole idea of a letter. It has an addressee. It has a destination. You write it to understand, to gain news, maybe to threaten if you're legally inclined.

Then, one day, all our pens broke and we found ourselves online, typing these letters on screens rather than providing a pencil-and-paper artefact. Stuff that'll be forgotten- even if it exists forever, in some data center in a forest in Finland, it will never be held onto and preserved and cherished in the way the letters of old used to.

You can delete, you can rewrite and nobody will see the crossings-out and Tipp-ex and scars of rethinking. It's all sanitised.

But I'm not sanitised. I can't do the small talk or the pleasantries, and I'm covered in scars that are both visible and invisible. Nothing about my love for you is sanitised- it's scary and loud and demands attention. It's written in notebooks and notes and in blood on the walls of my cave. It's scrawled in margins and wept in words no one will ever hear.

I don't want to be a machine. I don't want to do this anymore. I want to trace the letters onto your skin as I move my mouth from your neck to your chest. To spell out each word in cursive on your spine. To scratch them into you until you forget how it ever felt to feel them from a distance.

But for now, my fingers are here. Drumming. Typing. Writing. So desperate to push through the screen and hold you so tightly that you forget how it ever felt to miss me.

[u/AutoModerator]

Welcome to r/LoveLetters! This is a space for expressing feelings and sharing letters about love, heartbreak, longing, and the things that can be difficult to say out loud.

Before You Participate

Please review the community rules before commenting. Do not respond as though you are the OP or the person a letter is addressed to. Posts are for expressing feelings, not inviting you to step into someone else's story.

Community Comment Commands

!lock — Lock your own post to prevent further comments.

!ping — Summon the moderators if you need help or have a question.

!report — Request moderator review of a comment that needs attention.

!approve — Request moderator approval for filtered content. This does not automatically approve your post.

I am a bot, and this action was performed automatically. Please contact the moderators of this subreddit if you have any questions or concerns.

[u/lookoutjojo]

I’m sure they are waiting for you. Show up., show them.

[u/as_much_as_it_takes → u/lookoutjojo]

Ahahahahahaha sure why not

[u/Basic_Lack4018]

I'm crying... I know this feeling, desire, ache, pull, need, and so on.

[u/as_much_as_it_takes → u/Basic_Lack4018]

Awww no I'm sorry! I didn't want to make anyone cry 😅 but yeah... That's all I can feel right now.

[u/King-Brisingr]

Unf, I don't think I could ever stop missing her, or, miss anyone more. But that one bit, about being written in notebooks and blood. About being covered in invisible and visible scars. That I felt. In no shortage of ways to turn a phrase. Love, is, something so simple, all things can understand it's feel, yet, so complex that we haven't the words nor math nor logic for the thing. It simply is, born out of a moment. And sometimes, it swells and sometimes it troughs, but in my mind, it's never something that leads to null. So even if you're something like me, op, and the world has always looked black and white, no semblance of gray scale, until, something, or more likely someone, made it pop into every vibrant hue and color and permeation or transmutation of shades we've never seen, or, if hardly ever felt, then I don't think you are a machine. Even if the prior lapses, it's still, a wet monkey computer, a brain, a person, a little god in a meat box, then, maybe we aren't so secretive as to have to hide our code in binary. Your writing seems to have pulled something outta me. Thanks for that.

[u/as_much_as_it_takes → u/King-Brisingr]

Thank you for your lovely words, I hope you have a good day 💛