Hundreds of them.
All dated from three years ago.
Did Finn write these?
I recognize his clumsy handwriting from the many notes he left for me last summer. According to the dates, he would’ve written these when he was fifteen.
I keep glancing toward the door as I reach for one of the wrinkled letters. Then I unfold the piece of paper, sit on the edge of his bed, and start to read.
Dear heart...
You’re a fraud.
Do you know how many dumb fucksactually believe you can feel things?
They think you’re so great, in control of our emotions, but you’re just a vessel. Pumping blood into our bodies and hogging the credit for every love story ever written.
The brain is really the one doing all the work, and the worst part? Even though I know you don’t feel shit, when my mom disappeared underwater, it hurt in my chest.
That’s right, in my chest.
Not my brain.
What the FUCK is that about?
I should tell you I didn’t want to write you this letter. Good thing this is the last therapy session my dad will ever drag my ass to.
The lady with the glasses has officially declared me a “lost cause.” She told Dad to call her when I decide to help myself, and that, until then, there’s nothing she can do for me.
She did insist I write one more letter for my last session, though. (I swear she gets a kick out of torturing me)
First, I had to write a letter to my dead mother, and now I’m writing a letter to a goddamn organ.
I know what you’re thinking. Maybe she’s the one who needs help.
Anyway, I’m not sure what else to say, heart. The point of the exercise wasto pinpoint how I feel about you and I think I’ve made myself pretty clear.
But, just in case I didn’t, here’s a recap…
Dear heart,
I hate you.
-Finley
A smile preys on the corners of my lips as I read fifteen-year-old Finn’s words on repeat. I may not know much about his childhood, but this… his letter… it helps me see into a world he’s kept tucked away for most of our relationship.
Thisis what his life looked like. After his mom died, she left behind a broken, reckless teenage boy whose survival depended on finding someone to blame.
And when it wasn’t himself, it was his own heart.
“Am I bothering you?”
My heart somersaults when Finn’s deep voice travels across the room. Chances are, he’s been watching me infringe his privacy for five minutes, but I still try to cover my tracks and stash his letter under my thigh. He cocks an eyebrow at my reaction, a smirk stretching his beautiful lips.
He scoffs. “Subtle.”
Flushed, I pull the wrinkled letter out from underneath my thigh, exposing my sin with a cringe. “Was worth a shot.”