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I’ve always been fascinated with it. The number seventeen.
Ever since I was young. I thought it was some mystical, magical number. A special number that kept me safe. It was something I looked for. Something I pointed out and it felt special. A number just for me.
That’s how you felt. When I found you.
It was simply just perfunctory at first. You wrote so I could read. And fuck, did I read. I read everything. Every single thing you had to share. You had 40 stories, at the time, I believe. It took me almost a week to get through them all. I told you about how much your writing moved me and excited me, and how I loved it and cherished it, and you responded as though no one had ever given you love quite like it before. I felt honored to be your friend. Even if it wasn’t quite a friendship yet.
I told you that your writing was something special because I believed it. You always responded with something shocked and kind. It was a funny little thing. We didn’t know each other but we spoke to each other as if we did. I loved it.
Then one day, there appeared a way to actually contact you. A way that didn’t feel like pinning a letter on a board for the whole hallway to read. It was something just for you and something just for me. I felt I wasn’t ready. I was scared that you were older or different or a million other things I told myself to keep from emailing you.
But then after weeks of waiting and hyping myself up, just telling myself, “Do it, do it, do it. What do you have to lose?”, I did it.
You were looking for proofreaders. I was so honored. You told me you had been waiting for me. I didn’t realize I meant anything to you. It made me feel so special. It made me feel wanted.
No one before you had done that.
There had been people before. People who made me feel special. They hurt me. Maybe not with fists. But with words. They hurt me and ruined me and made me hate myself. There were boys and girls before you, friends and romances before you, people who I thought I couldn’t live without. People I thought I loved. They broke me and hurt me and left me. They said no when all I wanted was for someone to be there .
But you. You’re different. So different.
But sometimes I think, “That’s how it started with all of them.” They were different too. They had something that drew me in. They got me, hook, line, and sinker. You did too. Because all you were to me, were a series of words. You had no fists to hurt me with. Only words.
But this. It’s something else. I know it is, because where they pushed me away, you push me up. You push me to grow and be better. You push me out of the darkness and hatred and sadness. And you’re there for me when I fall back in. You rely on me but you don't suffocate me. You let me rely on you, and you care about what I have to say.
But when I first emailed you, I didn’t know it would be like that. I was worried you and I would be too different to be compatible as a writer and editor; I didn’t even think about a friendship at that point.
I remember the first time we spoke. Well, emailed.
“Hi!! I’m like your number one fan! Do you still need proofreaders? I would love to help in any way if you need it. Email me if you’re interested, if not, that’s cool.”
I felt so insecure. Did I sound too much like a child? Did I sound inexperienced? Too eager?
But you surprised me. You always surprise me. “Bro, I was wondering when you were gonna email me. Yes, absolutely you can be a proofreader!”
And you sent me a story. I read it. I felt so giddy and special, and I made sure to read it slowly to catch every mistake -- in my mind, I thought there would be none, because you were too perfect. I tried to be professional and helpful, responding to each of your emails within the span of a few hours. I never told you, but I must have checked my email ten times a day waiting to hear from you. The excitement when I saw one -- it’s unparalleled. It’s priceless.
After reading that first story, I realized that I had to take you off the pedestal I was building for you. You showed me that you were just a person. Just a writer, just like me. You made mistakes. You spoke improperly, with slang and phonetic spelling (and since I know you’ll ask, i mean spelling “going to” as “gonna”). You asked questions. You asked for advice and ideas and help .
It made me realize I couldn’t put you on a pedestal. Not because you didn’t deserve it; not because you were less, but because you simply weren’t made for it. You were a person. Not a god.
It took me some time, but I started talking to you as if you were a person on my level instead of someone above me. Before, I had treated you like a boss; someone to respect and work diligently for, not someone to socialize with. But I realized that I emailed you because I wanted a friend. Someone to help and talk to and teach and learn from and someone to share my passion with.
I opened up to you. I told you my age and other small things that didn’t really matter but that would help you build a picture of who I was.
I didn’t tell you about the past. I still haven't. It’s not that you aren’t ready. It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s that it hurts and everyone who learns about it changes the way they see me. I don’t want it to change. I don’t want this to change. I know it will. But for now, it will stay.
I didn’t tell you about my friends. In truth, they didn’t feel real. They abandoned me, much like everyone else. I saw it coming. My only regret is that we parted ways with them thinking the worst of me. I didn’t even try to change it -- but this isn’t about them.
I didn’t tell you about my family. It didn’t seem to matter. They didn’t even know I wrote (not in this way, at least). They certainly didn’t know that I read.
I told you about the cookies I liked to eat while writing. I told you about shows I was obsessed with (and we obviously talked about the one show we both knew the other liked -- you wrote about it and I read what you wrote, so we were bound to talk about it at some point). I recommended a few to you. I found that we had a lot in common.
It was a good sign and a red flag at the same time. Good, because it meant we had similar interests to talk about and there would probably never be an awkward silence (although they are pretty hard to achieve through emails), and we had similar senses of humor and logic. Good, because we clicked almost instantly. But it was a red flag, too. Everyone who came before shared at least one interest with me: a show, or a movie or a language or a passion for art. It scared me. I worried what we had would end up just like all that came before.
But I pushed past it because I fell in love with you. Platonically, of course. I also knew fairly little about you -- romantic love was not something I ever considered between us.
But truly, I can say this now (and as I have told you before) I fucking love you. Froggin love you. (That’s an inside joke.)
There was a story about soulmates. I think it was Greek. Men were created with two heads, four arms, and four legs. One day each man was broken in half, into two men. These men were destined to scour the earth in search of their soulmate, to be complete once again.
I think you are my soulmate. The best friend I could ever know. Someone who intrinsically knows me, understands me, loves me. You make me happy when I’m sad. You inspire me when I feel absolutely nothing. You always make me laugh, even though you’re just words on a screen.
We’ve talked about this, but I know we both think about the chain of events that lead us to each other.
It must have started when I first started writing. When I was a toddler, and at school I would write stories about puppies and Batman (I was -- am -- a huge fan of Nolan’s Dark Knight movies), and I drew pictures. They were my first comic books. I drew on printer paper and lined paper and then in notebooks and sketchbooks. I wrote in the same places. My comics split off into two branches, writing, and drawing.
I think we clicked so well because everyone who came before you had never been writers. You were the only exception. The only writer. We clicked not only on age, stage in life, obsession with tv shows, senses of humor, but also writing.
I felt so special the first time you read something I wrote. It was something I had written before emailing you. It took me weeks to show it to you. You had said you didn’t like reading sad stories, and well, I am what they call a pessimistic writer. A Nihilist.
Everything I write is sad in one way or another. Either someone dies or there’s a backstory that must never be talked about, or there’s something on the horizon, ready to ruin the parade.
You like the sunshine. The warm sand beneath your feet.
Don’t get me wrong, I do too. I love writing about the reunion of long lost lovers, or recovering from an illness, or anything with dogs. I like the sunshine. The warm sand. But what I love even more is watching water recede and come back a hundred feet high to destroy everything in its path. I love the maelstroms. The thunderstorms. Explosions and bleeding and tears. The fires.
It’s not the pain I love. It’s the reaction I get out of the reader.
Ever since I was little, ever since I first started writing, I would let people read my stories as long as I got to watch them. Every smile or gasp or grumble I got gave me confidence and happiness.
I love writing.
And when you read that story I gave you, and you told me you “like it very much, but also hate it”, I couldn’t be mad. I had gotten exactly what I wanted. Even now, when all I do is mention the story’s name you say “how dare you speak its name”. I believe that despite the story’s problems (mostly just a weird timeline and a weirdly face pace) it is perfect. I love it. You love it but you hate it. It’s exactly what I wanted.
It is not flawless, but it is perfection. Let me explain. When you say you hate it, I know exactly what you mean. I know you hate it, because I wrote it specifically so that you would hate it. So that the reader would feel exactly what I wanted them to feel.
I wrote a story with bits of happiness and bits of tragedy, but the characters are always able to surpass it and grow. They are able to fall in love and do what they love instead of what they feel forced to do. I like to take my audience on a journey. I want them to meet a character at their worst and watch them grow into their best. I want them to feel every single emotion I lay out for them, whether that’s hate or love or anger or sadness, I want to make you feel all of it.
My goal with writing is to make someone cry. It sounds simple, or maybe even sick. But I want someone to read my book and cry. I want them to be so invested in the story I made up for them, so attached to the characters I dreamt up for them, so devoted to what I made for them, that when I bring the pain and suffering and sadness to crush the characters, that it crushes them too.
I want to move you.
I want to move everyone who happens to stumble across my writing. But even if I fail, I know I have moved you. Even moving one person is more than I ever could have asked for. Moving one person has made me succeed. I’ve won.
I want my writing to be significant. I dream of English teachers dissecting my prose in classrooms, asking students who couldn’t care less, “What does the author imply when they use the color green in this passage?” I want someone to be wandering in a bookstore and see my book, and shrug and buy it on a whim because it’s on sale and they came in, might as well buy something , and read the first few pages, then the first few chapters, and then before they know it the book is over and they’re bawling on their couch. I want my books, my ideas, my stories, to be remembered.
I don’t care if they forget my name. I don’t care if they forget me. I’m not important. My name or where I grew up or where I live isn't important. Seeing a picture of me on the inside cover isn’t important in the slightest. It doesn’t affect how someone reading my book will see my book. My past isn’t important. The people who came before aren't important. My relationship to you doesn’t even really matter, at least not when put next to my writing.
It’s not even the words that matter.
It’s the feeling they give you. The images they conjure in your mind. The silent sounds they make your ears hear. The voices you’ve never heard. The sights you’ve never seen. The flavors you’ve never tasted. The sensations you’ve never felt. The fragrances you’ve never smelled. It’s all about how it makes you feel.
It’s just like with music. Movies. Books. I want to give people something they can’t forget.
Most importantly, I want you to be moved.
Now you, my friend, you have moved me. You always move me. You inspire me and help me and you’ve saved me and healed me with only your words. Words used to hurt. They used to be my worst fear. I didn’t speak for a time because I was so afraid of hurting someone else like I had been hurt.
But, you.
You are so kind and special and useful and funny and you’re everything. Even if you haven't seen all my favorite movies. Even if you miss my jokes sometimes. Even if you misinterpret what I say. Even if you hated me, you’d still be everything. You amaze me and surprise me. I love you and I cherish you and I thank you.
You are everything, and I love you.
You are my favorite person. You always know what to say. And you’ve never hurt me. Not even unintentionally. You’re always there and you love me too, and it still surprises me. I don’t know how you could feel that way. Sometimes I want to ask you if it’s real. Sometimes I feel like it isn’t because it’s just too perfect. You always make me smile and laugh. You always know just what to say.
I wrote this for you because you mean so much to me. I wrote this for you because you moved me. I wanted to return the favor.
It surprises me, sometimes, that we met by pure coincidence. That it may never have happened. I’m so glad it did. I know you are too. You tell me. It means so much that you tell me. That you’re here for me .
I’ve told you before, just once, that I hated myself. You were perfect. You said, “No. Don’t say that. Even if you do, just change. There are no rules. You can be whoever you want to be. You really can.” You were perfect. A light at the end of the tunnel and I needed it so badly, and you gave me exactly what I needed to hear. You didn’t know, but I was crying. I was sobbing. Because I hated myself. And I felt weak enough to tell you that. I felt weak enough to endure chastising or getting ignored or getting laughed at. But you didn’t do any of those things.
I was sinking into a pit of darkness and you jumped in after me and pulled me out. I don’t know what I would have done if you weren’t there for me. I confided in you. Because I trust you and I know you’ll be there to catch me.
Despite how poorly I think of myself (thoughts including: I’m an asshole, I hate myself, I wish I was dead, I wish my parents never had me, I wish --) I had to show you that I would always be there for you too. You said that you were stressed earlier that day. That you were struggling. You said, “If you had told me this earlier, I’d have most likely died.”
I said, “I would be there to resurrect you.”
“You would have had to be.”
“I would have been.”
“Good.”
I felt like I had passed a test. I felt like, whether consciously or not, you wanted to know how invested I was in this so you said that. I responded like I would always respond. You were there for me, so I decided to always be there for you.
“Y’know, there’s some times in life where you just know things,” I said. “This is one of those times.”
I paused for long enough that you asked, “Know what?”
“I know, right now, that even if we grow apart or stop talking, I will always remember you,” I wished I could have given you a hug. “I will always cherish you. I will always be your friend. And I will always fucking love you.”
“I fucking love you too, man!”
You mean a lot to me. Despite being a writer, I don’t have the words to express just how much. Words are my life. They were my pain. But you made them my joy.
Thank you.
You are very special to me. In an unexplainable way.
Just like the number seventeen.