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I fell in love with a writer. In the end of his letters, he would concluded, "Love, River."
It's odd to say I fell in love with the writer before knowing he was. I left my imagination to wonder what he'd look like, how his voice sounds, and what his hands felt like. It wasn't until a week or two later, I had discovered the writer was a boy who lived down my street named River.
Sure, he signed off the letter with his actual name. But at the time, I assumed it was simply a poetic alias—it wasn't. The first letter I came across was barely hanging on, almost doom to fall into the gutters. It must've flew away from the open garbage can, or that's what I'd assume.
Who knows how the letters were led to me? But I read them religiously, and fell in love with the words on the paper. The letters weren't directed to someone in particular, at least not by name. But it was a love letter, and I'd pretend it was me.
I fell in love with a writer, his words sounded so sweet. Somehow, the letters would always in up in my grasp. When I had discovered the second letter, it was crumpled up in the middle of the empty halls of our school.
I wanted to believe so hard, that perhaps, someone loved me as much as River did. In a perfect world, he loved me, even if we only had a class or two together. The letters formed a connection—something intimate. I felt honored to see a more hidden perspective of him. There was nothing more that I wanted than him. But...somethings aren't meant to be, no matter how much you pretend.
I fell in love with a writer, but unfortunately, his muse was not me.
