YOYOYO MY PEEPS IT HAS BEEN TEN MILLION YEARS. In my defense I started this during pride month. It is not my fault that I got sidetracked. Happy pride month. In September.

Dearest Sophie,

My hands are shaking. Can you tell it in my handwriting? I am being fancy with my words. How unnecessary. I am torn between writing you prose and writing out all my feelings at once, letting every word that comes to mind onto the page. I could write ten pages of adjectives about you without trying. The thesaurus wishes it were me. I guess I'll stick to prose then, because I don't want to go buy more ink at this hour. I couldn't tell you the time. I spend all my time wishing for you or wishing my other thoughts away. Hours and hours and hours I spend hating upon myself, or craving you.

And you don't even know.

You go about your day, as unordinary as it is, completely unknowing. You throw yourself into your feelings for my brother of all people. What a slap in the face. Golden boy golden boy golden boy golden boy of course you loved him. He's pretty much the best elf ever to exist. Only second to you, dear. Talk about a power couple. What about me. I put so much effort into being perfect all the time. I get up early and I do my hair, my makeup. I stare at myself in the mirror, looking my scars up and down. I am proud of them, I am. I lived through something. But they're big and ugly. White and pink and gnarled.

I choose a long sleeve dress. Poofy sleeves. Ankle length. Extra sparkles. Who am I if not a pile of glitter, waiting for someone to take a big puff, and blow me into the wind. No more than a shimmer of a goodbye.

The thing is that people notice. They notice the restrained giggle and the perfect lock of hair behind my ear. Let's be honest, it's the boys. Boys notice. And for ever and ever I tried to notice them back. I did. I did I did I did. I wrote a checklist. I told myself that I was restraining myself from liking boys until I found the perfect one. That I was protecting myself.
The perfect boy had to like the same books I liked. He must like my favorite colors. He must be a complimentary height to me. Not shorter, because that would never do, but he mustn't tower over me. He had to be fervent in his classes. He had to be good at everything, all the time. He must look good in white, because I look good in white, and the perfect boy has to match me.

And then I met you.

And, you know, you didn't meet my 'standards'.

We don't like the same colors or the same books.

Sometimes you don't do your homework, sometimes you're so busy juggling all your tasks you drop some of them.

And you look good in red. You look lovely in red. The way you look in red makes me dizzy.

You didn't cross out any of the lines in my checklist.

And I'm in love with you anyways. There is no such thing as a perfect boy but there is a perfect girl and she is you. And I understand that you have flaws, I know that. I love them. I love your clumsy, I love your sleep deprivation, I love that you leave a trail of eyelashes everywhere you go. You light my soul on fire in the most elegant, vehement way. I'm dubious as to whether the fire will ever go out.

Sorry.

(Not really)
(Yes really)

(Do you want me to be sorry?)
(You do).

I'll be quiet now. You're never going to read this.

Until next time.

There will be a next time. I cannot seem to stop this endless pining, and this endless letter writing.

I would write I LOVE YOU in the stars for you, if the stars would let me. I would write it over and over and over again.

Biana

Biana. Hi. It's Sophie. You know that. Probably. Maybe not.

Gonna be honest, I was just trying to have a good weekend. I came over to be all Cognatey with your brother (aforementioned golden boy), and I ended up with rifflepuff batter all over my shirt. (Because he poured it on me, not because I spilled it. This is important to mention because of reasons.)

And I was in your bathroom trying to clean it off my tunic, (the purple one, with the pockets,) (They all have pockets,) (You know that,) (I am doing the epistolary version of procrastinating), (Did i use that word right?) (I learned it off you,) (I'll stop). I was in your bathroom scrubbing teal out of my purple pocketed tunic with a paper towel. I went to toss it in the trash, and to my surprise, when I lifted up the lid, there was a letter. Addressed to me. In your curly letters. Your curly letters put my blocky ones to shame. Your everything puts my everything to shame. That's not the point. (It kind of is.) There was a letter with my name and my address on it, like you were preparing to send it, and then you didn't. And you may be thinking "Sophie, did you think that was wrong," and at the time I thought, "what could be wrong about this." Soooo, I picked it up, and I opened it, and then I read it. And now I know 100% that what I did was wrong. So I suppose I owe you an apology. Sorry. For reading your mail that was also my mail but was also mostly your mail.

Not the point. (Kind of the point). (Mostly the point.) (I really am sorry). ANYWAYS. I READ YOUR BEAUTIFUL LETTER AND IT DESTROYED ME. It tore my soul to shreds piece by piece.

And okay. That sounds bad. And I gather that's not what you want to hear. The last thing you want to hear(read?) after you pour your heart out via letter and then said letter gets thrown out and- you get the jist. I know it's not what you want to hear, that you hurt me, that you tore me to shreds. But you know, it made me think. (Wow Sophie. That's the best you could do?)

But it did. I thought. The whole weekend. I thought until it wasn't possible to think anymore. Which is saying something, especially for me.

But I think I like you too.

Weird.

Okay it's not *that* weird.

I don't know if you know this about me but I uh, can be pretty oblivious sometimes. (Who am I kidding. I was the last person to learn how oblivious I was.) I think for the last ten bajillion years I've been a lil bit too busy to think about it. Which I mean, that's fair right? The neverseen and foxfire has been keeping me a little bit too busy to question my sexuality. Every time I'd see a pretty girl in the street, I think my subconscious went "not today please and thank you". I was none the wiser. So yeah. It took me a lot of thinking. I had a couple of years of not-thinking, to make up for it.

One of your best friends tells you they like you. That warrants a lot of thinking in any case. Tam could say he loved me and it would take me just as long.

No it wouldn't.

But it's not because he's a boy and you're a girl. I think it wouldn't take me as long because I can't ever see myself liking Tam. Not when I met him, not in the future.

But I can see myself liking you. Very very close in the future.

I think I may like you Right Now. Without knowing about it.

Am I crazy? Yep. Definitely. So I like you.

And I can't be as poetic as you were. Because I'm Sophie Foster and you're Biana freakin Vacker.

But you know what. I'm Sophie Foster, and I've done some pretty great things in my life. And I guess liking you is another great thing I'll do. So yeah.

I'm sorry I read your mail. But. I like you. I think very nearly in the future, I will love you.

-Sophie-

Sophie.

This is possibly the most embarrassing thing ever to happen to me. Like when Keefe read my diary when I was twelve, on steroids. You finding my angsty letter in the trash could eat Keefe reading my diary for breakfast. And then for lunch. And then dinner. And then top it off with every other embarrassing thing ever to happen to me. Put them together.

Not even half as embarrassing as this situation.

You were never supposed to know. In a million years.

In ten million.

I should've ripped it to shreds. I should've blended it to a pulp and poured it's remains into a fountain. I should've fed the letter to Iggy.

Better to receive a love letter through imp farts than through finding it in the trash.

I am mortified.

This is a terrible ordeal. How much would I have to pay you to forget it.

How much would I have to pay a washer to wipe it from your brain?

I couldn't afford it. I'd have to flirt with him to get it done. But that's kind of the problem isn't it. The only person I want to flirt my way through an interaction with is you. Anyways. It has happened. I cannot wipe your memory as much as I'd like to. We must proceed.

So you like me.

The first thing I thought when I finished your letter was "I can't believe this happened to me". And then I changed my thought process. "I cannot believe this is happening to me!" Because Sophie Foster likes me back. And that cancels out her finding my trash romance letter. Cancels it ten times. Twenty times. Thirty times. Sophie Foster likes me back. You like me back.

Crazy world we live in, huh?
~Biana~

Ps: Be my girlfriend?

Dearest Biana,

Look, I know that I'm supposed to answer a letter the way it was sent to me. If you ask how I am and then what my favorite food is, I say I'm good, And Then, and only then do I say Mallowmelt. Not the other way around. But I can't help but look at your postscript. Honestly. You shoulda led with it. I wish I could write it in bold across the sky. I could have Silveny skywrite it I guess.

I would very much like to be your girlfriend. Please pretend there are fireworks going off in the sky as I tell you this. You are a firework. You are very beautiful and very powerful.

And I am very sorry for reading your mail.

Yours, truly,

Sophie.

My Sophie.

My Girlfriend Sophie. I would like to call you that forever. "Where are you going today?" "I am going to go shopping with Sophie, my girlfriend," "Sophie my girlfriend and I are going to Atlantis for lunch." I would like all the headlines to read "Sophie Foster, aka Biana Vacker's girlfriend, Saves The World Again," or something of that caliber. You're always saving the world. I hope you leave time for me. I hope you leave time for loving me. Perhaps we shall grow old together, saving the world from the Neverseen. Well. You'll save the world from the Neverseen or what else comes at you. I'll be here. Watching, cheering you on, absolutely adoring you.

Much Love,

Biana.