Young Writers Society

To the Other Half of My Heart,

Do you like pineapple on pizza? That's a silly question, but I need to know. I'm curious about you. What do you like? What do you hate? Why? I know so little about you, considering we'll be spending the rest of our lives together. Your name, your age, even the color of your eyes are all a mystery. The only thing that's clear is how much I already love you.

To My Best Friend,

How was your day? Tell me everything. Tell me what you did, the silly things and the crazy things and the heartwarming things, too. Tell me about the people you met and what funny names they have. Tell me about the happy moments, and the sad moments, and the moments in between.

And when you're done, tell me I am the best part of your day.

Tell me my smiling face is your greatest joy, that my voice is like hearing the stars shining, and you never want to step away from my side. But don't ask me how my day was. Please, let me fall silent as I cling to the edge of your sleeve and hide my tears in your warm shoulder. Let my morning and afternoon fade away into the soft darkness of your eyes.

Because you are not just the best part of my day. You are the only good part of my day.

To the Person Who Will Know Me the Best,

What do you think of long hair? Can someone's hair be too long? My father thinks my hair is too long, and I should have cut it the minute it grew past my shoulders. It goes down to my waist now, lengthy and unmanageable. Not to mention the fact that it gets everywhere.

Would it bother you if my hair was long? If you didn't like it, I could cut it, though I wouldn't enjoy it. I like having long hair.

I like a lot of things I shouldn't, apparently. My friend Eliza says I like sweets too much, and the added weight in my thighs and hips is bad for my proportions. She's really into fashion, and knows all sort of ways to make someone look prettier than they really are. She can design dresses to bring out their good spots, blur their bad spots, and make even the ugliest person look like a princess. But none of her tricks work on me. Apparently I don't have the right kind of body. To prove it, she measured me, comparing my width and height to the dimensions on a poster called "The Sizes of Beauty". I didn't fit any of the acceptable sizes. She said I'd either have to lose 20 pounds, or grow 10 inches, which at my age is unlikely. So if I don't lose 20 pounds, my clothes will always make me look like a "misshapen troll", and I'll never get a boyfriend.

But I don't need a boyfriend, do I? Because I have you. And you don't think I look misshapen, do you?

To the Person Who Will Hear Me Scream at Night,

I'm beginning to doubt your existence. Are you really there? Am I writing to nothing more than a phantom in my head? Will these words ever be seen by human eyes? Or will they remain trapped in the pages of my ratty old journal? That's what I fear the most. I'll never come to know you like I know the worn pages of my favorite book, or to understand you like I understand the way my fingers snap and my legs run.

Everything I know about love tells me if your soulmate is crying out in pain, you run to them. You stand by their side. If you really love me, where are you?

To the Person Who Will Live with My Demons,

I'm a terrible, terrible person, and I'm sorry. I shouldn't have written what I did. I can't even stand to read it now, it was so nasty and cruel, and you don't deserve it. I'm sorry. Whoever you are, whatever you're doing, I'm sure there's a reason. I can be patient. I can.

My mother says I complain too much. I make up problems that don't exist and blame them on the people around me. In reality, though, I'm the problem, the monster who's unable to see all the damage she's causing.

I'm trying to be better now. I made a list of all the things I'm thankful for, to remind myself when I'm tempted not to be happy.

1. My parents for bringing me into this tear-stained world.

2. My math teacher, for letting me retake the quiz I failed.

3. My friend Elizabeth, for always telling me if I have lipstick on my teeth, or I chose the wrong shade of eyeshadow, or my skirt is too short.

4. The girls' restroom, for being the only place boys aren't allowed. It's my refuge, where I don't have to worry about someone pulling my hair out or stealing my books or drawing obscene pictures on my homework.

5. My parent's bosses, for always making them work late. When my parents finally come home they're too tired to ask how I'm doing. They never have time to realize how much of a failure I really am.

But above all, I'm most thankful that I have you. That I can look forward to meeting you. I look forward to seeing you every day.

To You,

Bad day. Bad bad day. Can't talk. Miss you. So so much.

To My Greatest Accomplishment,

What should we name our kids? I'm partial to Alice and Jasper. Are those good names? You could probably think of some a lot better than that. I'm sure you're much smarter and wiser than I am.

My counselor says I need to get more involved in activities. I need to develop my skill set. She said I should join a sports team, or try out for the school play, or take an Advanced Placement class. But I don't think I'm ready to do any of those. I'm too uncoordinated for sports, too shy for theater and barely keeping up with school as it is.

Is loving you a skill? I'd like to be good at that. I'd like to work on loving you everyday. But I don't suppose colleges care about that sort of thing.

I'm not a fashion expert like Eliza, or a great public speaker like my mother, or a whiz with numbers like my father. Even my cousin Charlie, who dropped out of high school, is great with animals. I'm not pretty enough to be a prostitute, or brave enough to join a gang, or charming enough to rob elderly people of their savings.

I guess for now, I'm nothing.

To My Love,

Please come soon.