The White Car

[asphalt]

My dearest John,

I got your letter this morning, right before leaving for work, and surprise, surprise I ended up running late again. I swear, every time you write me something sweet, I turn into that girl who stands in the kitchen smiling at a piece of paper like it’s talking back. Yes, I can already hear you teasing me: “Slowest reader east of San Andreas.” Don’t start.

Today was the usual chaos. I’ve been trying to keep busy, like you always tell me. I’m still doing those morning runs, well, “runs” might be generous. Let’s call them “slightly determined fast-walks.” But hey, I’m getting better. Remember how you used to bet I couldn’t make it around the block without complaining? I would’ve proved you wrong today. Probably.

And since we’re being honest, yes, I’ve been wearing my hair the way you said you liked it lately. Not every day don’t get cocky, but often enough. It makes me feel connected to you, like you’re noticing me even from miles away. You said you think about the little things between us. I do too. I miss the way you’d smirk right before joking about something I shouldn’t laugh at. I miss how you’d pretend to be all serious, but your eyes would give you away every time. I know things in there are complicated, and I understand the way you have to move through that world. I won’t pretend it doesn’t worry me sometimes, but I trust who you are, the real you, not the version defined by walls and watchtowers. You’ve never let this place change the way you care, and that means more than you know. I’m counting the days too, even if I try to make it look like I’m not.

Write me soon, okay? Your letters make the whole week feel lighter.

Always yours,
Adriana

[criminalturkboy]

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