A/N: First of all, much love to lizzylizbian and her awesome fanfiction. She's the only reason this story exists.

And second of all: Since I said Catull's carmina gave me the inspiration to write this in the form of letters, I think it only makes sense to give you a short summary of what Catull's letters are about.

Catull has this girlfriend, Lesbia, who he loves very much and he wants to kiss her all day and night. She has a pet bird and it's super cute until it dies.

And then one day she just breaks up, cause she's such a skank and Catull doesn't love her anyway, because she's sleeping with everyone. That bitch.

Also, her new boyfriend is an idiot, because he doesn't realize that the only reason why Lesbia keeps talking shit about Catull is that she's still in love with him.

But Catull doesn't give a shit. He despises the little whore and the only reason why he compares every other woman he meets to Lesbia is, because she's such a skank and he hates her. Also, he has friends so fuck that. And yea, her boyfriend is an idiot. And Catull is still in love with Lesbia. Who would have thought?

And then, out of nowhere, Lesbia comes back to Catull.

WIN.

Lesbia is the most beautiful thing in the world and Catull is head over heels.

The ending is kinda left open.

Times have changed. People haven't. Can you believe that happened centuries ago?

Chapter 3:

Dear Brittany,

Next to my bed there is a little mahogany cabinet. I know, I know, you should never buy furniture made of rainforest wood and that's why I didn't. It's one of these things I keep for pure sappy nostalgic reasons as it was a gift from my grandmother for when I moved into my first apartment.

She insisted on giving me something that belongs to her instead of buying me something new. That way, she said, a part of her would always be with me.

I rolled my eyes (inwardly) and smiled (outwardly) and thanked her politely. Back then I found the old thing hideous and to be honest, I've never been one to collect old things before. That's a habit for old British ladies and gay men.

Now that she's passed away, though, I've come to love this ugly old piece of wood and I use it as a place to live out the sentimentality that has somehow snuck into my life.

When you open the top drawer, for example, you will find a couple of old pictures from my childhood:

Me and my brother on a swing. My mom sitting on a bench in our garden, reading a book. Our house. Freddy, our golden retriever, one ear standing up, the other one hanging down, head curiously cocked to the side. Our neighbors on their weekly visit for a round of Doppelkopf, beer in hand.

In the second drawer there's a couple of maps and cards I received from my brother. He travels around so much I never get to see him anymore, but no matter where life sends him, he will always make sure to let me know I'm in his thoughts.

The cards usually just say "I love you" or "I'm with you". Sometimes he uses them to tell me he's following my career. "Congratulations on your latest cover", "I read Natalie Portman signed to EA. Wow", "I'm proud of you".

The maps are far more interesting, though. He will always mark the exact route he's traveled and each place he's stayed, every inn, every hotel, every park he sat down to rest, every spot in the road he stayed longer than an hour, because he couldn't get a ride, is tagged with an X.

It's a treasure hunt and the price to win is him.

Those maps are probably the most valuable things I possess.

In the lowest drawer, though, I keep a little box. In that box, Brittany, you can find exactly 30 charms. One for each year that I've lived. And each charm represents one special event, one person who was important to me that year, one day of my life I wanted to keep forever.

My brother, naturally, is represented by a little silver and black suitcase, complete with a tiny key and stickers from different cities. They say "Toronto", "Tokyo" and "Paris", which is funny, because these are probably the only cities my brother never actually visited.

There's a little nacre tooth that my parents bought me as an exchange for the baby tooth I lost when I was six. They never got tired of telling me the story of my emotional outburst. Apparently I kept crying and shrieking for hours, because I thought my body was falling apart.

A little duck for, well, you know… her.

A silver owl for the day I graduated from college.

A small camera for the premiere of "Long Way Home".

I haven't decided, yet, what my 31st charm will be. So much has happened during last year. Everything that went down in EA, all these big steps in my career, everything I achieved, all these dreams of mine that have come true, everything I worked so hard for… this all deserves a place in my box.

But why then can I only think about what kind of charm you would make?

It's such a childish thing to swoon over someone I barely know and I'm too old, Brittany. I'm too old to dedicate a whole year of my life to a stupid one-sided crush. I'm too old to have a crush!

I wish someone would just come and shake me awake.

I used to be someone. At least at work I used to be someone. A cut- throat cunt. A heartless bitch. I never wanted to have those titles, Brittany, but at the end of the day I always knew that fame and success always come at a high cost.

And to be honest, these names they throw at me, they keep me safe. Better be feared and left alone than being loved and ripped apart, especially when you're a woman.

They all know not to fuck with me. Everyone knows better than to disrespect me. No one would dare to talk back at me. I can cut them into pieces. I am capable of ruining careers - lives - with just one sentence.

And now?

Look at me:

All I wanted was an afternoon to process and I'm not even able to get my head around what happened earlier today or if it happened at all. Am I going crazy?

I must be.

I'm a love struck fool sitting in the middle of a pile old of stuff that should have been thrown away decades ago, writing a cheesy letter to someone who's never even so much as smiled at me in a way that would indicate more than politeness or maybe friendliness.

It's so easy, of course, to think of us as secret lovers as long as we don't even talk.

It's so simple to pretend like we were meant to be when I never confront myself with reality. These letters are just thoughts. They're fiction. There's nothing that connects us in real life.

As long as my words don't reach you I can keep it easy, at least for you, Brittany, I can keep it easy.

You will never hear me speak about…well…this. You will never have to make up your mind. You will never have to be the fool swimming in nostalgia feeling like a complete wuss.

You deserve better than that.

You deserve to be someone.

- S.

Dear Brittany,

Every time I think I've found a solution for this emotional debacle you come in my way. Whenever I think I'm ready to shrug off these thoughts of you that keep haunting me you shoot me one of your sweet smiles and I'm caught again.

It's almost as if there's a blur of blonde creeping through my brain convolutions, tightening around the little veins there, making me have hallucinations.

And hallucinations they must be, because, Brittany, how can something that feels so right be of no meaning to you? How can you act as if nothing happened?

I know you're an actress, but, no offense - honestly - if you were good enough to hide your feelings from me you'd be a superstar. I recognize acting when I see it. It's my job!

So, logically, I'm making everything up. Whatever I thought had happened was only another dream.

You don't feel a thing and I need to get over myself.

I want to let go.

I have to let go.

I cannot let go.

Don't let me go.

- S.

Dear Brittany,

How do you say "stop" without actually using that word? How do you tell someone off without having to say it?

I'm sure I've tried my best.

My succubus struck again, Brittany, and this time I'm certain you were there. When you grabbed my wrists and forced my chair in your direction, when you knelt down and made me come there was not a doubt in my mind it was really happening.

I wish I could get a glimpse of what's inside your head so I could understand why you did what you did.

Why did you force yourself on to me? Why did you pin my arms to the chair and why did you push the way you did?

If you were trying to comfort me, Brittany, you could have hugged me, you could have kissed me. But that's not how a succubus works, right? That's not how you work. That's not what you feel.

You needed to catch me off-guard and you needed to take me. You had to take something from me.

Just what do I have that you apparently want?

And why couldn't I say "stop"?

I was always the strong one. I had to be strong for my mom when dad left us. I had to be strong for her when my brother decided to leave. I had to be strong for my brother who couldn't handle the divorce. I'm used to being responsible for a lot of people and by now it comes naturally to me.

I haven't known anything else for a long time and it feels okay. I can do that. I can handle tough situations. I can be strong.

When you grabbed my wrists, though, my skin started to burn and when your nose traced the line where I had imagined your fingers to be so often I was positive - just like back then when I was six - that my body would fall apart.

It was just so easy to be weak for these few bittersweet minutes with you between my legs. With you I found it easy to let myself float on this ocean of thought, on these waves of pure pleasure. It was easy to let you take over, to let you be in charge.

It felt strangely innocent. As if it wasn't wrong at all.

"It's okay"?

If it's okay then why do you have to remain this untouchable fantasy? Why do you insist on treating us as if we didn't exist?

Why do you have to be a dream?

Is it really okay?

For you? Or for me?

I wonder what wave will catch me next. I wonder how much time will pass and on what shore I will end up.

And I wonder if you will be with me when the time comes.

- S.