Letters to Wyatt✔️

8

December 3, 2015.

Dear Wyatt,

I finally got the guts up to reread one of your old love letters to me. Needless to say, it reduced me to a mumbling, sobbing mess. It was one of the earliest letters. We were only sixteen when you wrote it, and I still thought you were some romantic, goopy lunatic.

Our relationship started out quickly. My baby brother Lewis had just died in his sleep, and I think you knew I was lonely and hurting. We met at a park, only weeks after you moved to Michigan and for some reason you took an immediate liking to me, even though I was grieving and awkward and nothing like any of the popular girls that always had boyfriends.

We met at the park every day after that first day and we talked for hours on end. You told me you loved me only weeks after we had first met, and it had shocked me. I couldn't comprehend how you could know so fast. I had liked you romantically from the first moment we met, but it took me time to grow to love you like the way you always told me you loved me. You told me that you would write me love letters until one day I loved you as much as you loved me.

And it worked. Without a doubt it worked.

Your hand writing was a mixture of the kind of stuff you find in signatures on the bottom of the Declaration of Independence and what you find in a fourth grade classroom. It was loopy and hurried, and often it took a few moments to decipher the meaning of certain words.

Staring at your messy, smudged handwriting is oddly comforting. It feels like home. And somehow, that is one of the most scary realizations I've made since you've been gone, that you felt like home to me. You made me feel safe and wanted, and more than anything, I just want to be in your arms again with a new goopy love letter from you in my mailbox waiting to be read.

Savannah

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