"Behind every beautiful thing, there's some kind of pain."
✉
𝘋𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘈𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘦,
𝘜𝘯𝘤𝘭𝘦 𝘒𝘢𝘭𝘷𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳.
𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴... 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵. 𝘗𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘧𝘶𝘭.
𝘛𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘳.
𝘐𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘴𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘰𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘓𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘯𝘥.
𝘋𝘢𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥.
𝘑𝘢𝘤𝘬, 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥, 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘭 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘐'𝘮 𝘥𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘬𝘢𝘺.
𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘰... 𝘴𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘰𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨.
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯. 𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘵. 𝘔𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥.
𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸.
𝘐 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘢 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘪𝘯𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥.
𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐'𝘮 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘤𝘬.
𝘐'𝘮 𝘥𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘬𝘢𝘺, 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩.
- 𝘈𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘦
Leo read the letter he once again swapped with the old one from her locker. He had been doing this for a week now and still hadn't figured out how to talk to Annie though he wanted to.
He couldn't stop himself from reading the letters that were meant for nobody but Annie. He was filled with concern and curiosity.
While he learnt she had many secrets, there was never anything clear enough in her letters for him to grasp the slightest understanding of Annie or what she was keeping to herself. There were odd aches in his heart, thinking about all she carried on her own. Some part of him wanted to help her carry her burdens, yet he knew it wasn't his place, nor was he able to figure out what it was about her that had him so intent on sticking his nose in all his business.
He knew what he was doing was wrong in so many ways but he wanted to help.
He didn't even know how to approach her because how could he explain anything without telling her the truth-the despicable truth of what he was doing, invading her privacy and any trust he had yet to gain?
He found himself smoking more often than not. He couldn't find another way to numb the choking feeling he felt every time he read her writing. He felt an unusual type of pain he couldn't quite explain.
Sometimes the letters were poems.
The other day, one simply read:
𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘴𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘦𝘳,
𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘤𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴
𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘢 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦
𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘦𝘴𝘴
𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘯.
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𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒
RomanceAnnie Halden was the exact definition of a wallflower. She lived on the sidelines, didn't like attention and worried too much. She wrote letters to herself as her way to get her thoughts out. She never told anyone or let anyone see. Leo Smith, one...
