Hi guys, this is my first fanfic. Hope I've done Carla justice with this! Not sure whether to leave this as a one shot or continue it, I've got an idea I think could evolve though, so we'll see. This is set before Frank is introduced, or just in an alternative universe where he doesn't exist.
Reviews are loved and appreciated.
X

She'd always been a writer, ever since she was little writing was always a secret passion. She'd write everything down, stories; plans; confessions; troubles; she always felt better afterwards, it was like writing it down made whatever it was make sense. Carla always managed to put pen to paper, no matter what the situation may be. She missed it, missed writing, what with all the current technology all she did these days was send emails. Emails, just another excuse for laziness and poor writing skills.

Someone had once told a younger Carla 'when ever you need to tell someone something, write it down. A letter. No need to send it, just write it, clear your mind', and she'd done exactly that ever since. She remembered all the letters she'd written in the past, she remembered writing a lot when she was with Paul, a mixture of anger, happiness, sadness and pure distress, the wide array of emotions showing the ups and downs that their relationship had always had. But that was years ago now, her life had taken so many twists and turns since then, the most recent of the twists and turns leading her to where she was now; her dull office at underworld, the small desk lamp giving off a slither of light, lighting only the paper in front of her, leaving her in the darkness. How fitting, she thought.

She leant back in her chair, swilling her wine around the glass as she checked the clock, 11pm. She knocked back the wine, enjoying the feeling of it rushing down her throat. Sitting forward again she placed the glass back on the desk, little to no grace involved with her actions as she grabbed the paper, straightening it up before beginning to write.

'Dear Peter,'

Well, that was always going to be the easy part, but where did she go next? She lifted her hands to her head, letting the pen fall haphazardly before rubbing her temples, shutting her eyes whilst exhaling deeply. Moments later she pulled the pen back, now or never she thought.

'Peter Barlow, you leather jacket wearing backstreet bookie. You dishevelled and lost excuse of a man that I have fallen hopelessly and deeply in love with. Even writing this makes me want to get up, go over to that brick wall and head-butt it. Why have I done this? I think about all the offers I've had in the past, architects; rich business men; even a footballer once, yet here I am in love with you? A cheap bloke who wouldn't care or even notice if I sailed off the side of the earth tomorrow. It's pathetic, I am pathetic.

I sit alone a lot, usually in the evening after drinking my usual intake of the liquid you and I both love, strong booze. I know you crave it, just like I crave you. It's our loose connection, both forever attached to the fact we have an alcohol addiction. I cling on to it, knowing without that you wouldn't ever have a reason to even smile across the street or check on me once a month. Again, how pathetic. But when I am sitting alone, I wonder, wonder if things could be different. Wonder what Leanne has that I don't. Wonder if I do cross your mind. Wonder if I could get you into my bed, somehow. I hate it, hate everything. But that's me I guess - Ice queen, Carla Connor, the 30 something year old drunk, divorcee running the knicker factory, throwing herself at anything that shows her a bit of attention. Dirty flirt with an even dirtier giggle. Wonder why you don't want me? Hardly.

I wish you saw more of me, wish you realised that list isn't the actual me.. Mainly wish that you wanted me, just how I want you. I wish I wasn't sitting here in my office at 11pm, opening my heart out wide, sharing my hopes and insignificant wishes with someone who will never care, or even know about them.

I wish you knew the silly things, like the fact that when I go to sleep at night I rub my nose, something I've done since I was little, the only thing that used to get me to sleep when I could hear my Mum in the next room doing all sorts with all sorts of men.. I wish you knew that I love cherryade, so simple and silly, but I do. I guess it's a nice break from the wine every now and again. I wish you knew I loved birds, mainly seagulls. When I take myself away, I often go to the seaside. I sit on my own, usually in a café, watching the sea roll in and out, the seagulls dipping low onto the sand, braving the kids around, trying to nab their dinners. I wish you knew how much I hated the rain and how much I loved the snow. I wish you knew I had a birthmark, wish you knew where it was, what shape it was, just because you could know.. I just want you to know anything and everything about me. Insignificant to everyone else, but significant for me.

I wish I could talk to you. Talk to you properly, tell you about my childhood properly. I wish I could tell you my fears. Did you know I hate butterflies? I've never even understood why, I just hate them fluttering near me.

There is just so much you don't know about me.

So much you could know.

But now, our paths are set, you being the reliable family man that you are and me being the hopeless in love spinster. I'll always admire your loyalty, to your son and Leanne too and I hope you're always happy, as happy as you can be, forever. One day, maybe happiness will come up and jump on me again, I'll look forward to it and I'll look forward to seeing you, even if does break me knowing I'll never be able to kiss your grumpy face when I see you on a Monday morning.

I'll always wish there was more to me and you, and I hope you will always remember me, even if it is the simplistic way that you and most people see me now.

You'll always be in my thoughts,

Your Carla x'

With that she wiped the tears from her cheeks, the ones that had been trickling ever since she'd let her pen make that first cursive scribble on the paper. She sniffed softly, whilst folding the letter and placing it in her bag, ready to take it home, never to be seen by the sought after recipient.

They were her wonders and wishes, to be kept deep inside, hidden by her, forever.