╰┈➤ 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐞𝐧: 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳

𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐇𝐎𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍,

I never told you I liked you.

Mostly because I'm not sure how. I was afraid of admitting it out loud for so long that I shoved it down. Lied straight to your face. But I want you to know how I feel.

So I'm writing you this letter, a love letter I suppose it is, but that sounds stupid. So we're not calling it that.

I'd rather have this conversation face to face but I don't think I could face you. Maybe I would call you but it would seem so impersonal. (And you don't own a phone because you don't believe in filling the pockets of major corporations.)

I know this is cliche and cheesy but maybe that's what love is.

My original plan was to ignore my feelings for you, you were so calm about yours and I was scared of mine. It made me angry.

So, I tried to avoid you. But everywhere I went, I saw you.

I walk past the antique record store and there's you.

I serve a cup of coffee and in the reflection I can see the outline of your face.

I walk down Champs-Élysées, the moon dawdles beneath a tarp of star-seamed stucco — a crepe-paper mobile eclipsing the seam of Paris, swathing it in its amber embrace.

The night is so gorgeous and I can't even admire it, I can't even take it all in. Because when the pale icteric gaze of the summer moon kisses my face. All I can think of is you.

You're everywhere except right here and it hurts.

You're the moon and in the depths on night you kiss my face, you coat me in a light I could never have on my own.

It's funny really, I didn't consider myself a hopeless romantic, I still don't. But, I used to dream of having someone who would find out the real me. Who would save me from myself in a way.

And there you were.

I've collected any guitar pick with a special design that I found. I've turned them into jewelry. Earrings, necklaces, bracelets, anything I could think of. I love having those pieces on me. Because it's a piece of you.

I messed up Hobie. I messed up bad. And I could sit down and beat myself up but I don't think you would want that. I think you would find that pathetic so that's not what I'm here to do. I don't even know if you made it this far, or if you threw it out the second you saw the lipstick stain on the envelope. But I messed up everything Hobie, and I'm sorry.

I miss your voice, I miss your touch, I miss your lips, I miss you. I miss being happy it's been so hard recently. Sometimes, late at night, our memories sneak out of my eyes and roll down my cheek. When I say I miss being happy, i really just mean I miss you. Because somewhere along the way, those two words became synonymous.

I love you Hobie.

It's in paper and it was still hard for me to accept. I really do love you, and I was scared of it. I still am. And I hope one day you can find it in your heart to forgive me. You deserve someone who loves you in the way you love them.

Given the fact it took me two weeks to reach out I don't know if that's me.

It's selfish, I'm aware. But I secretly hope my space in your heart doesn't belong to someone new, even though you deserve better. If you find it in your heart to forgive me, you find yourself wanting to see me again, I'll be there. 

Standing there where you left me.

My heart is yours,

Poppy 

LOVE SPEAKS!

I may have tried to do imagery and like give it a poetic appeal because that's what I've been trying to do this whole book. But I think it just ended up looking out of place.

For those of you confused this is just one of the letters Poppy wrote but never sent that was mentioned last chapter.