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Disclaimer: I don't own Beyblade.
Enjoy!
Confession
Dear Mariam,
I don't know what made me write this letter. I haven't seen you in months and whatever little you felt toward me, if it was ever anything at all, is surely long gone by now. To be honest, I don't think you ever really liked me in the least to begin with; it was probably all in my imagination. You've probably even forgotten all about me and find it stupid that I haven't been able to do the same.
I won't deny that I haven't been able to stop thinking about you. I'm plagued with memories of that time we were stuck in that collapsing warehouse together. I don't know why, but it's almost always that memory I can't not think about. It's like those specific moments are stuck on repeat in my mind and I just can't bring myself to hit 'stop'. I can't help but feel like I caught a glimpse of the real you – the being that dwells within your soul – on that day.
That's basically why I'm writing this letter. Whether I end up sending it or not, (Come to think of it, I have no idea how to get in contact with you anyway.) I need some way to vent and try to get my feelings straight. You probably know by now how bad guys can be with that.
Over the course of thinking about what I was going to say to you, I've come up with one prevailing explanation for the constant reminders of you. Mariam, I think I'm in love with you.
I don't understand it and I don't know if I ever will, but I feel- What's the use? I can't explain it. All I know is that when I think of you, it feels right and soon I find myself unable to stop thinking about you and I wonder if you ever think about me. I start to imagine us living out the rest of our lives together happily married with kids and a dog and I know I've now officially lost it.
I think I'm going crazy. I don't know if anyone's ever felt this way about someone else before or if I'm just some nut job who needs to be locked up somewhere. And to make things worse, this letter got all jumbled up even though I promised myself I wouldn't go on a rampage.
Well, now that I've got this down on paper, maybe I can be a little more rational about things. I'm sorry for passing my messy train of thought onto you but, if you managed to read this far without tossing this letter aside, thanks, Mariam.
Love,
Max
Without even taking the time to proofread it, Max slid his letter to Mariam into an envelope. He stared at it for a few minutes before sighing and tossing it into his bedside table's drawer. He collapsed onto his bed, willing himself to forget about her. It wasn't as if anything would ever happen between them anyway.
A/N: Dramatic irony anyone? Speaking of dramatic irony, I learned about that again in English today. I swear half the stuff they teach me is stuff I already know.
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P.S. Dramatic irony - in literature, a plot device in which the audience's or reader's knowledge of events or individuals surpasses that of the characters. The words and actions of the characters therefore take on a different meaning for the audience or reader than they have for the play's characters. (From dictionary(dot)com.)