Zac: Is this how you talk dirty? If so, we might need to work on that.
I’m embarrassed by how loud I laugh at his message.
Love: I’m serious, dork.
Zac: No one says dork anymore
Love: Who are you? The dork police?
Zac: I should. That sounds fun.
Love: I asked you a question, dork.
Zac: Stop calling me that. And I lost my grandpa when I was five. You?
Love: My dad.
Zac: What happened?
Love: He was sick.
What? It’s true. He was sick of life. The bubbles pop on my screen as he texts back, but I don’t want to discuss this further, so I text him again with a topic change.
Love: Do you believe in fate?
Zac: Like destiny?
Love: Yes.
Zac: Not really.
Love: So, you’ve never had something happen to you that’s so crazy the odds are almost unreal? Something that makes you believe that maybe everything does happen for a reason?
Zac: Such as?
Love: I don’t know. Like not getting on a plane because you missed your flight and it crashes?
Zac: Nope, can’t say that I’ve ever had something this freaky happen to me.
Love: You do realize that the only reason we’re talking to each other right now is because I wrote a hate letter to my teacher and accidentally left it in a book?
Zac: Doesn’t prove anything.
Love: Okay, what about the fact that the timing perfectly aligned and we were able to keep exchanging letters and confessions through the book for weeks?
Zac: Fine, that was weird, I’ll give you that.
Love: Do you ever miss it? Writing the letters?
Zac: I haven’t really thought about it since we stopped. Why?
Love: Because I do.
I’m startled by my own honesty.
Startled, but truthful nonetheless.
I miss writing him letters. Not having the slightest idea of who’s on the receiving end. I miss being able to look at my childhood crush without wondering if he’s my secret pen pal.