1642734778_punk-57-pdf

“Oh, my God.” I reach in and fan the envelopes, seeing my writing on
every single one.
He kept them.
He kept them?
I don’t know why, but I guess I never thought he actually saved them.
Why would he? Thinking back, I can’t even remember what they said.
Couldn’t have been too interesting if I can’t recall.
The other three boxes are probably filled with letters, too.
“I can’t believe I wrote you this much,” I say, a little horrified. “You
must’ve been so bored with me.”
“I adored you.”
I look up, seeing him stare at the floor. An ache weaves its way through
my chest.
“I adore you,” he corrects himself. “I’ve read them all at least twice. My
favorites, a lot more than that.”
His favorites. And then I recall. The letters I’d found at the Cove. When
he stayed there—away from home—he took those with him. The rest stayed
here.
I feel guilty now. “They’re in my desk,” I confess. “I lied. I didn’t burn
them.”
He gives me a little nod. “Yeah, I hoped so. I have mine, too, that you
threw all over the place at the Cove. In case you want them back.”
I give him a small smile, grateful. Yes, I do want them back.
I replace the lid, kind of curious to open a few letters and relive all the
embarrassing things I shared with him over the years. Kissing with tongue
the first time, the music I suggested that I thought was so epic but realize
now it was kind of lame, and all the arguments we got into.