Introduction: Dear You,

11:36pm - Do you think anyone reads these messages? They'd probably have a good laugh at us!
11:39pm- Actually I think they'd be rooting for us...

A drunken house party, a ten minute conversation that she doesn't remember, some number swapping, and a four month courtship.
Heather is falling for someone she doesn't even remember meeting.

Dear You,

Well if you've found this, this is a little bit embarrassing. Now I know what you're thinking, crazy girl has written about me! Well you were the one who wondered if people would laugh at us, and I intend to find out. Maybe this is creepy, I don't really have any way of knowing. If you think about it, this is really just an overly dramatised version of a diary. It's only semi-autobiographical at any rate; you can't really be scared off by fiction. wondered to me if anyone was reading our messages and if they were having a good laugh at us. I'd wondered that too, but I always thought they'd probably be rooting for us. They'd see me slowly revealing my insecurities and my past hurts, and your gentle reassurances. They'd see us agreeing on our taste in music and getting excited by our new found similarities. Your endless compliments, your ambitions, your terrible jokes, my ruthless piss-taking. One or both of us whining about our hangovers. That's what writers strive for, characters you can root for.

Hopefully you see where this is going. No this isn't some grand declaration in an attempt to tie you to me for longer. Nor is it a sign of any desperate insanity on my part. You're not really in here, and neither am I. It's more than just the names that I changed. This boy is not you, and this girl is not me. But with any luck you'll see the truth behind the fiction.

With shy affection,


(PS, if you are currently running away screaming, you're only running away from royalties- I clearly have a best seller on my hands.)

The End

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