October 3rd.
I'm scared. Genevieve. I really am. I keep doing the wrong things, and I keep hurting you. Which is the last thing I ever want to do. I keep trying to get away from you.
No. That's not right.
I keep trying to lose feelings for you.
Duncan and Bowman were a temporary fix, a distraction since I swore off all the girls, which was easy because it meant more time I could spend with you. But the more time I spent with you, Genevieve, the more I found myself falling for you. Some critics would say that I should just take the risk and tell you, but I don't think I'd be able to handle it if you reciprocated my feelings.
In all actuality, I don't think that I'm good enough for you.
I never meant to hurt you all those times I blew you off for other people, I promise I was thinking of nothing but you the entire time. You have a permanent spot in my mind. Everlastingly.
Tristan.
. . .
October 27th.
I don't blame you for not believing in love, I didn't until I met you.
You have a way of making me feel happy. Being in your proximity makes me feel better than any drug could (Not that I've done drugs). I have to wonder though, what goes on in that pretty, little, incessantly working, head of yours Genevieve? Because I'll tell you what goes on in mine:
The way you carry yourself. You walk into a room and you command attention without saying a word. You're so intelligent, and you know it. Your ambition. I fully believe that if you wanted to take over the world, you could. I adore your confidence, and how you know that you're beautiful, and how you're never insecure. Fuck. You're gorgeous. You're like a girl sent from the heavens above. I wonder though, how do you get your hair to be that shiny? It's so pretty. I'm mesmerized by you.
We were talking about love letters, and you sighed and said "Imagine someone being so engrossed with you that you receive love letters." I know you were probably joking, because I know damn well there are people at school who would jump at the opportunity to even be looked at by you. But, I found myself growing embarrassed. At the risk of sounding like an utter nincompoop, I've been writing you love letters since we were ten. Here in this shabby notebook.
So, Genevieve. Say the word and I'm yours.
Or don't.
I'll still love you either way.
Yours, Tristan.