1642734778_punk-57-pdf

Three months.
I frown. He’s never been quiet this long before. Misha often needs his
space, so I’m used to spells of not hearing from him, but something is going
on.
The wax starts to melt, and I hold it over the envelope, letting it drip.
After I blow out the flame, I pick up the stamp and press it into the wax,
sealing the letter and finding the fancy, black skull of the imprint staring
back at me.
A gift from Misha. He got tired of me using the one I got when I was
eleven with a Harry Potter Gryffindor seal on it. His sister, Annie, kept
making fun of him, screaming that his Hogwarts letter had arrived.
So he sent me a more “manly” seal, telling me to use that or nothing at
all.
I’d laughed. Fine, then.
When we first began writing each other years ago, it was a complete
mistake. Our fifth-grade teachers tried to pair up our classes as pen pals
according to sex to make it more comfortable, but his name is Misha and
my name is Ryen, so his teacher thought I was a boy, and my teacher
thought he was a girl, etc.
We didn’t get along at first, but we soon found that we had one thing in
common. Both of us have parents who split early on. His mom left when he
was two, and I haven’t seen or heard from my dad since I was four. Neither
of us really remember them.
And now, after seven years and with high school almost over, he’s
become my best friend.
Climbing off my bed, I slap a stamp on the letter and set it on my desk
to mail in the morning. I walk back, putting my stationary supplies back in
my bedside table.