Dear you,

Today I first saw you. You're in my Biology lecture. We sit next to each other. I'm not sure if you remember.

Anyways, I just wanted you to know I think you are lovely. Like a rose.

Shit. That's shitty.

Sorry, English is not my first language.

—

Dear you,

I worked up the nerve to say hello today. You grinned like you'd been waiting for it, and I think my heart may have stopped for just an instant because that smile was so…

So…

You.

"Cosima," you said.

"Delphine," I said back.

We shook hands and I tried to pretend I did not want to let go.

I think you noticed, though.

I hope you didn't mind, or think I was weird.

It's just that your hand was very soft and warm,

and maybe my parents didn't hug me enough as a child,

or maybe I'm just a lonely college student.

Sorry. This is ridiculous. I'm not even sure why I'm writing it. Is it for you? Or is it for me?

Oh well. It's helping someone, I guess.

—

Dear you,

I still do not know what I'm accomplishing, writing these. I'll probably never give them to you. It's just that I can't say these things to you, so I have to get them out somehow or else they'll rot my insides. That may sound dramatic, but it is the truth.

There's something burning in my gut.

I think it might be love for you.

Which is ridiculous. We never even see each other outside of class. In class we hardly talk, but I like to watch your hands. They're very busy, those hands. Do they ever sleep?

I don't sleep, anymore. Instead I stare at the ceiling and make up impossible scenarios in which you realize your love for me and we live happily ever after.

So this is what they mean when they say "crush." Funny, people always make them out to be so petty. Just mere admiration.

But this.

This crush is crushing me.

—

Dear you,

Today you struck up a conversation with me. It is hours later and my heart still hasn't settled back into a regular rhythm.

You are really something, you know?

You'd asked me how I did on the test. I told you and you whistled, saying "Damn. I sit next to a regular genius."

"No," I said. "I just like learning."

I asked you what you got and you said a score higher than mine and I gaped.

You grinned. "What? I just like learning."

I just like you, I didn't say.

—

Dear you,

We went out for coffee this morning.

You looked beautiful in the early light, your red jacket bright against the grey sky. You said, "Fuckin' cold, hey?" and I nodded.

We talked all through the morning. In fact we spent so much time there that I went through three cups of coffee and you, four. I wondered if people thought we were a couple.

I wondered what you were thinking.

We went outside so I could smoke. I told you you could stay inside where it was warm, but you refused. Said you didn't want to look like a "total loser sittin' all by myself."

Halfway through my cigarette your teeth began to chatter, so I put it out and put my brave face on.

I grabbed your little hands in mine, sandwiching them between my palms. I breathed into the space between my hands, hoping to warm yours. You stared. I began to blush.

"Sorry," I said, dropping your hands instantly. "You seemed cold." At first you seemed unsure what to do with them (and maybe you were a little disappointed?) so then you shoved them in the pockets of your red jacket.

I like that jacket. It suits you.

"I was," you said. "I am."

"We should get back inside, then. Yes?" I said, and you nodded urgently.

We finished our last cups in silence.

I did not try to touch your hands again.

—

Dear you,

You haven't mentioned the hands thing. Thank you for that.

We talk like nothing awkward happened; in fact we seem to be getting closer.

You touched my shoulder and it burned for a few hours. The best burn I've ever felt.

We spend a lot of time together outside of class. You invite me to your apartment where we spend a majority of our time "dorking out." Your words, not mine.

Maybe you are a dork, but I do not mind because I think you're adorable.

You are my dork.

—

Today I

fuck

Dear you,

Sorry, I forgot I was writing a letter. I'm just so happy.

Today I kissed you.

Well I suppose if we're getting technical, you kissed me. It was quite sudden. One minute I was telling you about my hometown in France (I think we should take a trip there next summer), and the next minute I was mumbling against your teeth.

You pulled away almost an instant later, looking so horribly scared I just wanted to wrap you up. You said,

"Shit. Shit! Delphine, I'm so sorry. I don't know what my deal is, I-"

But I didn't want to hear it.

So I kissed you back.

"Shut up," I growled in between, and you giggled against the corner of my mouth.

—

Dear you,

Sorry I haven't written in a while. You see, I've been busy. With you.

We've been dating for six months. Shit. Six months.

I didn't realize how long it was until it was on paper.

Anyways, we've been dating. And I love it. I have never been happier. My life as of late has been a blur of late-night lovemaking and wild laughter and terrible science jokes and coffee and you.

Mostly you.

Mon dieu, I love you.

you you you you you you you you

sorry

you got me high for the first time today and I'm having trouble concentrating

—

Dear you,

Forgive me if this is hard to read. I'm crying and the tears are making my eyes burn so I am having difficulty seeing what I write.

You told me today that you are sick.

It is not just a cold, or the flu. The blood you expel from your lungs tells us that much.

It's terminal.

You are dying.

ughshitsorryitallseemstoorealnowthati'vewrittenitihavetostopnow

—

Dear you,

It is strange how things that are so good can end so quickly.

I said in a previous letter that we'd been dating for six months, then I said how that was such a startlingly long time.

I was full of shit. Six months is not long at all, and it was certainly not enough.

You left me today and I wish we'd had sixty years instead, but I know even then it wouldn't have been enough.

That's the thing with time, isn't it? There's never enough of it.

I try not to think about the fact that you never got to read these letters. I bet you'd have made fun of me. I'm not very poetic, but I try.

Your red jacket still hangs in my closet.

I love you.

I miss you like

I miss you like

It seems I cannot come up with a terrible enough metaphor to explain how much I miss you.

Sorry, English is not my first language.