Letters To Ida

two

To Ida,

I saw you again today. I had to start writing my paper for English.

You sat there on that striped chair on the wall with the big glass window. I think you sit there because you like the feeling of the sun's warmth beaming on your back. But that's coming from the guy who sits three tables away from you underneath the vent where the air conditioning freezes everyone to death, so what do I know?

You have another book. It's royal purple with dusty yellow pages. I bet those smell different than the newly printed books. Do they smell like old stories, waiting to be rediscovered? When you think about it, those old books that sit in the corner of the bookshelf are probably lonely. No one has read them for the past ten years. They sit there and grow those yellow pages you seem to love so much and develop the musty smell that you inhale every time I see you.

Oddly enough, I don't find that weird. Maybe you feel like the story would swallow you up if you knew what it the scent of that scene was.

Or maybe you just like the smell.

I wouldn't know.

You are always here. Everyday after school, for the past three weeks. I see you read a different book each day. I wonder why you never finish the books.

I wouldn't know.

It's lovely, watching your reactions to your books. Sometimes you you bite your lip while you hold back a smile, others times you drop your facade and laugh full on at your characters. You have a beautiful laugh. It jingles and rings like Christmas bells and lights up your face with such a pure joy. And I can tell that you are truly happy. That you were able to let go and just be free for that one moment.

I wonder if you can't do that very often.

I wouldn't know.

Today, it's one of those on and off days. Your book seems to have brought a few chuckles from your lips, but maybe now your characters are getting more intense and you find out that not everything is as happy and joyful as you had originally been informed.

I see your face twitch for a moment before one of those smiles breaks out between your pale cheeks. You have one of those smiles that could fix broken people and turn a tornado into a rainbow. It danced a ballet on your face, graceful and strong. That smile reached your eyes and made them crinkle like an old button down shirt that needs ironing.

I love your smile.

Every time I see you so moved by a book, I always check it out after you leave. I've never seen anything like these emotions you have. Not in the same context, anyways. When people read, they don't react like you do. But you are special. Your imagination takes control of you and I know that for a while, those characters are real for you. Maybe you like talking to them more than real people and that's why you avoid conversation like the plague.

I've seen it. You don't walk or sit near to people, and when you do, you keep your head down, sending the clear message that no, you don't want to talk.

I totally understand. Because I don't want to talk to people either. They only end up breaking us. Maybe someone broke you. Maybe someone broke me.

I wouldn't know.

But, do you know what? Every time I read one of the books you do, I always find out the reason why you cry or laugh or smile. You are something special. I'm not an emotional person. I exaggerate and eat too much bread. That's all. My interesting life ends there. But you want to know something?

You make my life so much more interesting.

And if that's the only thing I know for sure, I don't want to know anything else.

From, Rio