The Linguist

Bonjourno l'amore

I know this is far fetched, but it's helping me. How are you? It's been three months since you've vanished off the face of the earth, somewhere I can't find you. But I know you're out there somewhere, and I will therefore continue to write to you.

 You've always loved travelling, and I like to think you're out there, sunning yourself and chasing girls.  Hell, if you can see the world, I can at least communicate with them. So I'm learning as many as I can. It makes me feel closer to you, like you're here with me, somehow.

How foolish was I? We were never anything.  We simply coinhabited worlds, classes, years.  Yet I clung to the knowledge you were there. You were the rebellious boy that dared to say everything I couldn't, with a cheeky smile and talent beyond his years. You made teachers tear their hair out when, after being snide and irritating all this time, you graced them with amazing grades. You spent your time on the field, or with a drink in your hand, chasing girls and laughing with the boys.  I was the girl who cared too much, with her glasses on, and her thoughts miles away. I tried so hard to make teachers like me, respect me. I worked so hard to get the grades I did, stressing late at night about French verbs and literary motifs.  I spent my time writing, or listening to Italian music, or playing guitar.

We were paired one day, chalk and cheese. We had two other people in our group, but one was mousy and shy, and the other in hospital for the moment. We were the masters of this creation. You began your regular ploy of charming us into doing the work. She was cynical, spending more time around your type, laughing it off and bantering. I bit my tongue, trying my best not to look starry eyed or too harsh.  What was the best ploy when you stroked my hair? My friend sat on her desk, laughing into her hands, as I struggled with what on earth to do with myself.

In the end, I did the work. I forced you to contribute, and you shocked everyone by coming out with insightful, cohesive points, which you delivered to the class when the time came with no notes, head high. I watched as you led our group into high grades. I could see you as a leader, a speaker. I saw why teachers assumed you were the head boy.  I clung to my notes, wishing I could be rid of them as you do, fly by the skin of your teeth, just talk.  Paint pictures with the words flying from your mouth like music.  Hold the class in awe with your eyes.

So that's the sorry tale of why you're receiving mail from me, the babbling girl in your English class, the one everyone secretly resents for her full marks.

I hope you even read this far.

-Written on an open Word document in the ICT rooms.


The End

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