November, 19, 11:05 pm.
Dear Hunter,
I did catch a cold. I don't know how but now I'm wrapped in the blanket with the pen in my trembling fingers (I promised to write you) and I wish I had tea. Your tea, Hunt. Who am I kidding, I wish I had you.
Why did you love me? I'm not complaining, but look at me. I'm skinny waste of skin which only hides an awful soul, I'm a shell-fish within its dirty shell. You weren't afraid to get your hands dirty, you reached the insides and claimed that found a pearl. You made me a better person, Hunt, that's why I love you endlessly, but me? Why did you need me?
Once I actually asked you this. You just laughed softly and asked, "Does it really matter?" It did, so your gray eyes met mine and you brushed your nose against mine, saying, "Because you are you, Bas. Isn't that enough?" I have never asked you anything like that anymore.
The other day I asked what did you think about the future. "Whether we disappear as a class?", you asked, your eyes glistening with laughter. On my "About our future, Hunt" you said that someone talks too much after sex and then you wouldn't stop going. You talked about a little house in the countryside, about wedding and white flowers. You talked about a dog that would jump in front of the house, a couple of children and cold beer on hot days. You talked about movie nights, innocent kisses before children and baseball on Sundays. With every word I fell in love with you over and over again because you wanted to do all these things with me. Where did all that go, Hunt? The house is sold to some rich old man who keeps his gold there, flowers withered, beer is warm and the dog is dead. Where is our American dream? It got killed by reality.
Head is getting heavier, it's hard to keep my eyes opened. Where are you, when I need you so much? In some kind of desperation I beg you to come, to hold me, to comfort me, to get me away from this routine which is slowly killing me. I'm screaming till my throat starts throbbing and ignore the angry neighbor; I tear the paper, try to destroy it but then I remember that you are on that paper. Sorry, dear, I've driven myself crazy. I close the window and try to calm down, and I still have that tiny hope that one day you will lit my cold apartment with your joyful laugh.
Do you know why I start writing on the exact same hour? It gets a lot of time to transfer my thoughts from my head to the paper, so when I finish, the new day begins. You are really the first and the last thought of my day. Foolish, cliché, annoying – let it be. I just love you, Hunt, and I love thinking of you.
It's getting colder and I can feel your eyes on my back telling me to go to sleep. I can't disobey you, dear. It's 11:59 pm. I would send a picture, but you will believe me, I know.
Forever yours,
Sebastian