Page 34 of Going Viral for Christmas
Beneath the surface, there lies a bit of unease, of tightly leashed anxiety. She’s smiling through static. There’s a power in her stillness, but also a quiet fragility that makes me want to lean in, understand it, protect it.
My mind wanders to that panel earlier today. The curve of her smirk. The fire behind every word. Then later, when it looked like she'd rather set herself on fire than fake date me. Somehow, that only made me want to know her more.
My thumb hovers over the screen. I should delete it. I won’t.
I set the phone down on the armrest and stare at it. At her. My pulse stirs, languid and thick from longing and need. I want to show her I’m not just the guy who signs cleavage and wears dragon-print sweaters for clout. Under the layered charm and the manufactured smile, there’s a man who read her book and finally felt understood. Who watched her walk away tonight and wanted—desperately—to chase after her.
I didn’t, though, did I?
Yeah, I’m a coward. I’ve been one for too long. But I’m done with that. I’ve been granted a Christmas wish—to turn pretend pages into a real story before it ends.
So, Santa, if you’re listening, I’m cashing it in for Ava Bell’s heart, wrapped and delivered.
Tucking the book between the chair and my thigh, I shift forward,elbows braced on my knees, breath shallow. After a beat, I dig through my messenger bag again and fish out a page of letterhead. It’s blank. Quiet. Honest in the way a glowing screen never is.
I need to write to her. It’s a habit I stole straight fromThe Lumberjack’s Love Lettersto become that hero who lays himself bare because words are all he has left.
I started out writing a letter a week, but it soon became whenever I felt the urge to talk to her. Not asThe Blade.As me. Just me.
It’s become my ritual. My confession. My way of whispering to her in a world too loud to hear it otherwise. I don’t know if she’ll ever see them. Maybe one day I’ll be brave enough to share.
I put pen to paper and let my heart spill across the page. When I’m done, I stare at it. The ink blurs where I pressed too hard—like my hand knew how desperate I was to let this out long before my mind caught up.
I don’t put it away. I let it sit there on the table–a declaration scribbled too fast to be pretty. Too honest to erase.
This letter isn’t just for her. It’s for me too. For the part that still doesn’t know how to say what I feel out loud without screwing it all up. Writing it down instead of hiding behind a keyboard makes the silence a little less loud.
I set the pen down and lean back in the chair, dragging both hands through my hair. The page stares back at me. Unspoken. Unignorable.
Bells,
I’m sorry.
I was an asshole tonight. No excuses. You didn’t deservewhat I said.
You started walking away from me, and I had to get the last word in to feel like I wasn’t the one being left behind.
The truth of it all is, you make me nervous.
There, I said it.
You’re beautiful. That part’s obvious. But your looks are not what frays me. It’s your fire.
You wield silence better than any insult. Your eyes pin me like you’re three moves ahead and ten seconds from being done with me. You see through me in a way I’ve never let anyone do, and it knocks the ground out from under me.
I panicked tonight. Built up my defenses and said something I can’t take back because the thought of you being done with me, before we even begin, gutted me.
But here’s the thing: I’m grateful for this arrangement we’re in. It’s insane and probably stupid, and stitched together with PR tape, but it’s also my chance to show you the man you deserve. Outside of The Blade.
Just me.
The me who wants to be worthy of your time, your trust, maybe even more.
You don’t owe me forgiveness. You don’t owe me anything at all. But I owe you the truth. And the truth is this: I want to do this right. For the cameras, sure, but mostly for you…and for us.
If you keep hating me, I’ll deserve it. But I won’t stop trying to prove I can be more than the man who panicked when you almost walked away.
Love,
