Hi, Gracie,
I know this is strange but my therapist suggested that writing you a note might help me make sense of things.
Not that you’ll see this. It’s in a journal. Yes, a journal. You’d be proud of me if you knew, you little stationery whore.
It’s blue leather and from Mont Blanc because when I told Kow what I have to do, his bougie ass sent this to me. You know he’s worried if he actually went out and bought something for me.
He’s more like you than you realize.
Well, aside from that weird ability he has to almost die once a year… Thank God you don’t have that, too, or I wouldn’t just be going gray, I’d be losing my fucking hair.
Still, I’m not sure where I’d have been without you guys the last couple years. Unfortunately, since Noah got traded, I’m alone in Montréal.
And…
Christ, Gracie, I’m scared.
No, I’m petrified.
All the goddamn time.
I don’t feel safe anywhere because nowhere is safe.
I wish I could talk to you about this, and I know that you’d be mad at me if you realized I was holding back, but some stuff, I just can’t say out loud.
My house isn’t safe. The rink isn’t safe. Nowhere is fucking safe. All the places where I found peace away from the spotlight were used to target me.
It’s not like I can even carry here.
You know I hate guns, but it’s starting to feel like having one nearby is the only way I’ll be able to sleep at night.
I guess it’s weird that my therapist wants me to talk to you. Well, it’d be weird for you. Not for me. It’s starting to make sense.
You’re my safe space.
I didn’t realize it until everything… happened, but you are.
It’d be easier if Kow were my safe space, I guess, but he isn’t. He’s not you. Maybe if I could tuck you into bed next to me, I wouldn’t need a gun…
I cannot wait until you’re 35.
I’m not known for my patience but fuck, for you, I’ll wait.
So, this is my first ‘letter’ to you. Mike suggested it because I’m struggling to journal my feelings, but he says if it feels like it’s an open dialogue, it might seem more natural to me.
I figure he’s right because this is the first time I’ve written more than three words.
Mike intends on reading it. I’m sure you were right about him having communist leanings—he’s definitely a tin-pot Lenin. But he doesn’t offer to suck me off every time I break down during a session like you promised, so yay?
I miss you.
I can’t tell you that either.
Not IRL.
Here I can.
I can’t help but feel like you’ve been pulling away. I wish I knew if it was something I’ve done. I know your mom gave you shit for that stunt at Amelia’s wedding. You’ve been distant since then. It’s not like you even remember what we promised each other afterward, never mind what happened, so I don’t understand what made you back off.
Some days, that makes me sadder than memories of ‘that time.’
Couldn’t believe it when you didn’t make it home for Christmas—the level of devastation I experienced was a new low.
I’ll write you tomorrow and, just so you know, the compass you bought me keeps pointing south because that’s where you are and where I’m not.
Liam
