Dear Hunter,
The first act of true, chivalrous affection you showed me was to give me the free ticket to your football game you'd always wanted to see. Something about rival teams. When you finally got the tickets, you asked me to come with you instead of Brett who was practically on his knees at your front door begging you for them.
Football never was my thing, but I came anyway purely to spend more time alone in your company. I knocked on your door and you came out in a Superdry sweatshirt and shorts. That jumper is still at the back of my wardrobe, folded into a tight ball to try and preserve the smell of you. Funnily enough, it still smells exactly as I remember it — like lemongrass, fig, a hint of cologne, and home.
We hardly talked yet again. Your attention was purely fixed upon the game, and you would occasionally stand up and cheer at the top of your voice when your supporting team scored a goal, or something of the like. I still don't understand football, despite your many attempts to explain the rules to me and teach me to play.
You bought me a burger from the van set up across the road after the game had finished, and we sat at the side of the road to eat. When I got cold, you gave me your jumper and took it back when you dropped me at home.
A few months later, you gave me the jumper again — only this time, you didn't ask for it back, so I kept it.
All my love, always,
Maia.