Haven't spoken to you for three weeks now, and it's showing. I turn, your name on my lips, and find an empty seat, a space with no vibe. I wrote to you, hoping it would all turn out like a fairytale, that you'd see them and understand me, understand what you mean to me. But I didn't have the nerve to send them, and they remain entombed in a box at the end of my bed, whispering of lost feelings and bleeding emotion into the rug. I'm sorry, I'm far too emotional for my own good. What was I to you? A name in passing? A brunette head in the crowd? Yet still I lose my wits to you, a looping name in cornflower blue on paper, a voice in my head. I'm such a fool.
-Left in a copy of Wuthering Heights, in the school library