What's the worst that can happen when you're forced to co-captain with your rival?
Nova Shields can't stand Leo Hendrix. She hates his arrogance and obnoxiousness, that crooked smirk he does when he thinks he's right. Leo can't stand Nova's wits, t...
اوووه! هذه الصورة لا تتبع إرشادات المحتوى الخاصة بنا. لمتابعة النشر، يرجى إزالتها أو تحميل صورة أخرى.
LEO =============== 01/03/2003 Panay, The Philippines ================
My brain is lousily rattling as I think about how to even start this damn letter, pen poised on the paper as I use my knee as a desk.
'Dear Nova.' Absolutely not.
'To Nova.' No.
'Hello, Nova.'
For fucks sake.
I'm not exactly a romance type of guy through and through, and my hangover isn't broadening my creativity.
I think back to how Dad would write his letters to Mom when he was trying to 'woo' her. She'd secretly kept all of them, let me and my brothers read them when we were old enough to understand.
We would laugh at the things my Dad had written, say it was ' so embarrassing'.
Now, I'm in the exact same position as my Dad was all those years ago.
'Sweet Kate,' was always his opening line.
I think if I kicked off the letter with 'sweet Nova', she'd probably shoot me before even reading it.
He used to write a poem. I can't write poems, I can barely fucking write in a straight line.
How did he write the poems? I can vaguely remember a few, but the memories are bitty and broken up into chunks.
He used to write about the things in his life that reminded him of her.
All I can write are the things I can't physically bring myself to say out loud since, despite my age, I'm apparently a fucking hermit.
I took my damn frustration out on her, all because I'm terrified of what's going on in my own head, of my vulnerability.
She was so damn oblivious to what I meant by the 'issue'.
The issue is that now, I can't imagine my life without her; but after everything that's happened, I've got to imagine it.
I tiredly glimpse down at my watch, catching the arrows pointing at 9:30am.
I've got around thirty minutes to spill every last emotion onto a piece of scrap paper; find her, apologise and give it to her before she leaves.
The pen hasn't even made a damn mark as of now.
'Nova,'
Just 'Nova'. Her name. That's it. That's the most creative fucking starting line I can gather.
In hindsight, it is probably a good idea. As soon as her name hits the paper, the pen keeps flowing.
The ballpoint glides, each black stroke of ink another drop of my feelings pouring out.
