Prose that may be too bland or too blue;
Random stories that may or may not be true;
All penned by Alice in her times of loneliness;
They shall aid the mind and heart of the restless.
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The first time I saw you, I was thirteen.
You were the smartest of them all—smarter than me, smarter than anyone I knew.
I never expected to meet you again. After all these years. They say fate can play with you sometimes, and I wonder if this is fate’s way of telling us we might be meant for more than just strangers.
Once, twice, several times, I have come so close to you, divided by just two feet of space. We spoke. Yet . . . it still feels distant.
I wonder if you ever doubt yourself. If you ever hide your insecurities behind those baggy flannels and pants you wear. I want to tell you to never have an ounce of doubt, because, darling, you are perfect. If you could only see yourself from my point of view, you would know how amazing you are. Utterly. Your eyes, they’re so expressive. And your mind . . . I want to know that smart and quick mind of yours.
I’ve written many letters and poems to people I’ve fallen in love with, but I never had the chance—or the courage—to deliver them to their rightful receivers. I wonder if you’ll ever read this. I suppose I’ll leave it up to fate. After all, if fate could bring our paths together in this university after all those years, then I trust she will ensure you read this if it’s meant to be.
