I try to turn away from the page, but I can’t. I consider that maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible to read only the part that mentions my name. But once I allow myself to sit in the desk chair, and I take the paper into my hands, my eyes go straight to the beginning, and I do not try to stop myself.

I’ve tried for over a month to think of what I might say to you in this letter. I wasn’t, and I am still not sure how to address you – so this is my salutation.

As far as this letter’s contents, I’m not sure if I’ve been coming up short because my life needs little summarizing, or because you've simply missed too much, and I can't decide where to begin. It's hard to tell you about me, that is what I'm trying to say. But the most important part of my life has been revealed very recently, and I could talk forever about her.

You met her, and I don't have to wonder about your memory to assume that you remember – no one could forget her.

She didn’t tell me that you’d spoken to her, of course. She’d kept silent until Victoria could speak to me, because she didn’t want to upset me. She didn’t feel that it was her place.

Stella is careful when it comes to her place in people’s lives. She knows what it’s like to be broken from the inside, and in order not to burden another with even an ounce of the pain that she’s felt, she often keeps away from others entirely.

I am lucky to be her exception.

Before Stella, I never thought that I could be anything more than a problem for other people. I could take care of myself, sure. But I was positive that no one would ever feel safe with me. I thought I would never be able to make someone happy.

I fell in love with her for the way that she changed what things I saw ahead of me. It reminded me of driving with dull headlights, when the road ahead of you is too dark to make out, and it’s a bit scary. And then she was there, and I could finally see other roads ahead of me – see what I might be coming up to. There was more for me, and for us. She became a light to a part of my future that I’d given up on before I'd even had a chance to begin, and I will never be able to thank her enough.

Maybe I’m not very good at metaphors.

What I mean is, I never thought there was much in this world for me – other than fighting – and I certainly never thought that there was someone for me. Every day I realize more and more that I’ve always wanted her – even before I knew her.

She is the dream that I was afraid of having, and she’s helped me to realize other things that I want, too.

Even now, as she’s asleep in my lap, I’m seeing things that I haven’t before, and I know what I’d like to say to you.

I hope you’re brave enough to need someone, someday. I hope you find yourself at peace with the idea that when you love someone, and you allow that person to love you in return, there is no pain that cannot be eased.

Look forward to hearing from you,

C

I quickly place Charlie’s letter to his father back on the desk so that it will not catch the tears falling from my eyes. I lean back into the leather chair and allow the tears to blur my sight completely, and fall silently.

When my eyes are dry, and my vision clear, I decide to write my own letter.

Dear Dylan,

I know it is strange that I am writing to you. I can talk to you in person; I can call. But I know that people like us – people – cannot hear the words “it will be okay,” enough. And we don’t need to hear the words directly – we’re reminded of impending okayness when someone tells us to have a good day, or that the weather will be beautiful tomorrow, or that they can’t wait to see us again, or that they love us.

I know, too, that you wonder sometimes just how different your particular way of being hurt makes you: Is it a product of our past, or a product of being human?

I’m young. I have a lot to learn still. But until I can offer you my answer, I can offer you my story.

I was surprised when I found it so incredibly easy to pinpoint the exact moment that I decided I was only ever capable of being alone.

It was only a month before I left for Clemson. I'd long since been deemed "okay" and hadn't been to speak to a therapist for nearly a year. But on that day, I was impassively irritated about details of my leaving for school, and plans that my friends had dragged me into. Unable to cope with the irritation for long, it turned to sadness, and when I knew that I couldn't talk to my friends about it, I turned to my parents.

I remember them looking at one another, the glances that were so common prior to my being deemed "okay," and I vaguely remember stopping mid-sentence, something like "I really hope when I'm finally in Clemson that I'm not constantly bothered to—"

And that was it. The look between them was an indication that they were no longer listening to me, but would be collecting when I said, only to correct me or to pass me off.

I think I tried to redeem myself by pretending to squint towards the window and uttering "I don't know," before I hopped down off the bar stool that I'd been perched upon and informed them that I was going to take a shower.

I walked out without looking back, yet my memory still recalls another look between them.

I undressed quickly, feeling that every article of clothing was another barrier that I had to rid myself of before I could break down honestly.

At the time, I couldn't remember crying so hard ever. Now, I can only begin to compare it to one other night, when I’d left Charlie after a fight. But still, I’m not sure that it comes close.

All I remember during my sobs was that every time I would admit in my head how vastly unhappy I was, I felt the feeling chip away.

I could never say that – that I was unhappy. How was anyone supposed to think that I was okay if I couldn't even be happy? Some happy people aren't even okay; I'd had enough conversations in the lobby of my therapists' office to know that for certain.

But once I was done, once I'd quieted and my chest was rising and falling more steadily, I thought that maybe I was lucky to have learned so young that no one cares to know if you're happy, or even if you’re okay.

I decided that the social niceties of passing on the street and telling acquaintances that "I'm great! And you?" are only products of the larger picture – that most people are too busy trying to help themselves.

And sure, there are an infinite number of exceptions, I knew even then. Still, in that moment, I felt it to be profoundly truthful that for the sake of the people around you – family and friends, acquaintances and passerbys – you were expected to be “okay.”

After, I slept, and I didn't cry again for a very long time.

Recently, while trying to decide about my residential fate, the memory played so clearly in my head. But I still felt that I was forgetting something.

I played it twice after that. The first replay seemed exactly the same, but the second time, I saw things a little bit differently.

My parents’ shared look no longer felt combative against me. They sought out each other when they felt helpless to fix me. Their frustration was not in the fact that I was not okay for them, but in the fact that they weren't enough to make me okay.

My parents weren't always okay, either, but they kept each other from being alienated. To me, they hardly ever seemed burdened in themselves, but only because they did not make themselves my issue to fix. I was wrong to think that they had come to the same conclusion as me.

Because to an acquaintance, my mother might only excitedly announce how beautiful the weather is; or my father, in his quiet, reserved tone, might respond to a question about his day by simply saying "It's going," and smiling warmly.

But with each other, they were never so dishonest, and they were not left alone to help themselves.

I think that needing people is a product of being human, but it’s our past that can make it more difficult to accept our need.

So, in a way, we do save ourselves. We have to open ourselves up and accept the fact that maybe there is something about us that's worth loving. And even when we've been broken, for the people who love us, we're still enough.

Love (truly),

Stella

I find Dylan’s address in my phone and use one of Charlie’s envelopes, deciding not to ruin the effect of a handwritten letter by giving it in person and not through snail mail. I walk the envelope out to Charlie’s mailbox, trusting that he won’t be too suspicious should he mail his father’s letter before mine is retrieved.

When I make it back into the living room, I look at the time and realize that Charlie will likely be home in minutes.

Rather than be burning pasta or chicken when he arrives, I go right to the number for our favorite pizza delivery and place an order. While I wait for him, I put a record on, and I lie down on the couch, welcoming Elvis to fill my ears.

The door from the garage opens after a time, and Charlie immediately calls for me.

“I’m in here,” I call, sitting up on the couch.

I reach my arms out for Charlie as he approaches, sitting down and pulling me to him.

“Listening to the King again, baby?” He asks, kissing me quickly.

“How was your day?”

“Draining. I don’t know how much I’ll miss my days as a trainer,” he smiles, and then he looks down as he usually does when he admits his excitement for moving and then realizes that I cannot share in it the same way. “How was the day for you?”

“Learning experience,” I say with a look of entertainment. He tilts his head, but I do not elaborate yet. “I didn’t cook anything,” I confess, “But the pizza will be here soon.”

“That’s okay, baby,” he says, stretching his arms around me and pulling me onto his lap, “Pizza sounds good anyway.”

“Better than anything I might’ve made?”

He laughs, “I wasn’t implying anything.”

Perched on his lap, I stare down at my hands as they play at the collar of his shirt.

“Would you still keep me around next year, even if I’ve still only mastered the art of ordering a pizza?”

He huffs a laugh, staring blankly down at his hand on my leg. “I wouldn’t even ask you to order pizza if you would come—”

He looks up at me then, frowning curiously.

“Why did— Did you mean that—”

“I want to move with you. I’m sorry it took me so long to decide. I thought that I would forget how to take care of myself if I let you be there for me in even more ways than you are now. But I like that you’re there for me, and that I’m there for you. It makes me okay. I love you.”

I rush my words, and as I speak, Charlie sits up, his eyes becoming level with mine as I remain in his lap. As soon as I tell him I love him, he kisses me hard.

Minutes pass, and before we speak again, he’s moved us to lie on the couch, with me below him.

“I love you so much,” he says as he breaks away from my lips. “But this is what you want, right? I know I’ve been persistent, but I want you to be happy with your decision, first.”

“Charlie,” I push my hands against his chest so that I’m able to sit up and face him, “This is absolutely what I want.”

He kisses me again, and again, and again, until we’re interrupted by a pizza delivery. For the rest of that night, as records spin on the table, we talk together about elements of our coming move – the certain, and the uncertain.

Regardless of words, every plan and every possibility sounds like heaven.