Page 48 of Down My Chimney

Even after I made a post clarifying that Marika was just a friend, and that anyone who harassed her would get blocked and reported on sight, I couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d said. I lay awake that night, turning the question over in my head. What did I deserve? I’d wanted people to love me, wanted their validation, but I hadn’t wanted the responsibility that came with that.

And before I knew what I was doing, I’d turned on the light, gotten my laptop out, and pulled up a blank document.

Dear Henry,

I can’t stop thinking about something you said in May. I’m sorry if that makes me weird, for still thinking about it, and having essentially memorized what you said to me, but let’s be real, on the list of my flaws, that’s hardly the top one.

So this thing you said. You said we were real adults, living real lives, and that our decisions mattered. And I don’t think I really got that until now.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I definitely don’t feel like an adult. I think you were being a little optimistic with that. What college student counts as a real person?

But our decisions do matter.

I’m taking a marketing class this semester. I actually like it, which I’m a little embarrassed to tell you, but since I’m not ever going to send this letter, it’s probably safe to write that here. To be honest, it’s my favorite class I’ve ever taken, and if that says something bad about me, well, that’s still not my biggest flaw.

Anyway, in this class, we had to write these letters of complaint about products we hated, and then we got assigned someone else’s letter, and we have to pretend we’re the marketers in charge of spinning those complaints as a good thing.

And I got assigned this electric shaver that cuts you because the blades are so sharp. And it’s like, how do you convince people that something that might hurt them is still a good thing?

And at first I was like, okay, I’ll market that as like, something very masculine for guys who shower in mountain springs and swim with bears and chop down trees and aren’t afraid of a little blood, right? It’s the price you pay for a good shave.

But I don’t actually think that’s it. I think it’s about the opposite of being hard and gruff and all lumberjack-y. I think it’s actually about being vulnerable.

Here’s the thing. I was meeting with Marika today, and she asked me to tell people online that we’re not dating, because apparently people have been harassing her, and she obviously doesn’t like that. And she casually mentioned that her girlfriend didn’t like it either, and oh my God, Henry, I must have looked like such an idiot because I had no idea she liked girls.

I had to like, collect my jaw off the table and shove it back into my skull. I know that’s bad, but it had seriously never crossed my mind that she could be gay or bi or something. I just figured she would have mentioned it before, you know?

But here’s the insane part. After she told me, she was joking around saying that for all she knew, I could like guys, and I swear, it actually hurt when she said it. Like it was so ridiculous to imagine that I could be gay.

I mean, how nuts is that? I’ve spent the past year trying to hide the fact that I’m gay, hoping no one will find out the truth, and then I get offended when it works?

I guess I’m just finally realizing how self-centered I’ve been. And how much that must have sucked for you.

So I told her the truth. I actually came out to someone, and I didn’t die, and the world didn’t end. And then I told her about you.

And once I started talking, I couldn’t stop. It hurts, talking about you. But there’s this other part of me that just wants to talk about you all the time, because just thinking about you makes me so happy, it feels like my chest is going to explode.

It’s like that shaver.

I’m in love with you, Henry. That’s the only thing that makes sense. And I think I’ve been in love with you for a long time. And that’s why you can make me bleed.

If I didn’t care, it wouldn’t hurt so much. But I do. And it does. And I know it’s my fault that it’s over.

And I think I’m starting to get it, what you said about our decisions mattering. Little by little, they stack up, and they come to define who we are.

I don’t think I’ve been a very good person. I understand why you didn’t actually want to be friends with me, why you were just saying that so I’d finally let you go. I don’t think the decisions I’ve made this past year have made me the kind of person anyone would want to be friends with, to be honest.

But even if we never talk again—even if you meet some prince over there and fall in love and get married and never come back—I guess I just wanted to let you know that I get it, and I’m going to try to be better.

And I wanted to say thank you for being in my life at all.

I love you,

Blake

I hitsaveand closed out of the document as fast as I could. Just typing those last few words left me breathless. But it was true.

Even if I never sent Henry that letter, I did want to be a better person. And even if I never saw him again, I couldn’t think of a better way to show that I loved him than to try to improve.

---