Letter One

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Dear Blake,

Senior year, we were all just cruising by. All waiting to hear what colleges we'd gotten into.
Or what places we were going to volunteer. Work or travel.
Gap year or straight into more studies. The hallways were alive with buzzing of the future.
All year long, that's what it
always felt like.

Ever since I'd been a sophomore I'd been taking AP classes.
There was never a time to slack off
and take the easy way out.
I had to pad my resume with good grades and volunteering hours.
Extra credit and
playing teacher's pet.
There wasn't an adult in the entire school that didn't want to write me a letter of recommendation.
My hard work paid off like that.

Despite rumors about me being gay, I guess I was treated well enough.
People liked me for being a good tutor. They liked me because I was always nice.

I was a walking stereotype,
(as most of us are in high school),
of the overachieving Asian with so much to prove.

And you were Blake, the closeted quarterback of our unrelenting football team.

I honestly never thought our paths would dare meet.
But they did.
And even though it didn't end well,
I don't regret it.
I don't regret it one bit.

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