Work Text:
I sit down at the table once more, pen in hand, hoping that this time I can articulate my thoughts correctly: not too dry, but not overly sentimental either. Sincere, yet not excessive.
Writing letters in the 21st century is, of course, an impractical folly. A pointless waste of paper. A standard text message would be much faster, simpler, without unnecessary fuss, but there's always been a part of me—a hidden romantic. So, taking up a chewed pen—a silly habit I picked up from him—and casting a fleeting glance at the earlier spoiled scraps, I try to begin writing, though the cinematic trope of a finished cup of coffee and sitting by the window hasn't brought the desired inspiration.
Dear Dipper.
Even settling on a single form of address is difficult. Mason is his name, and yes, as he grew older, people started calling him that more often, gradually pushing the nickname out of everyday use... But we've known each other since childhood, that very childhood. We've been through so much together, saved each other's lives more than once... Addressing him by name feels so formal...
Though fate has scattered us in different directions, I was extremely pleased to receive your wedding invitation,
Even though I had learned about it long before. Of course, Mabel, whom I still follow not only from my main account but also from a fake one, couldn't help but share the news of her beloved brother's engagement with the world.
Which, to my great regret, I won't be able to attend.
He doesn't need to know how deeply this news affected me. I thought I had long forgotten about my teenage crush on the boy-hero. I believed I had outgrown it along with my rebelliousness and youthful maximalism, but the video of the happy—and yes, I must admit—in-love couple stirred up those old feelings along with jealousy and, to be honest, envy.
My father has serious problems that I don't want to burden you with, but I think you understand that now I am his only support, so I won't be able to come.
A half-truth, a slight omission. I run my hands through my hair. I don't like lying, especially to him. I can, but I don't want to.
But I'm still very happy for you! And that doesn't mean I won't congratulate you from the bottom of my heart! I'll send a gift; I hope it arrives on time and that you'll like it.
Sometimes I think that we could have had a beautiful story if I hadn't been so blind and inactive. There was a chance. Actually, more than one. There were so many that I can't count them, and I missed most of them myself. Perhaps, if I hadn't kept postponing everything to "next summer," it could have been our wedding...
Such sentimentality is not typical of me. I understand logically that there's no point in regretting. It's my own fault. I backed away, pretended to be a friend, and ignored the signs, and then I realized I had fallen in love. When he fought for me, seeing how upset I was, hysterical, because the newly minted boyfriend turned out to be a jerk and stole my mother's engagement ring, disappearing in an unknown direction. I still don't know how he found it or what exactly happened. Only the result is known—his battered face and the ring that I wear on my neck, strung on my father's chain.
Without unnecessary words, he went and did that for me, and then, as I was treating his wounds, I realized that he was no longer just a boy in a cap but a real man. Only... I let it all go, was afraid to be honest, and was sure he wouldn't go anywhere without me. I was 17, and I had a whole life ahead of me planned.
I know what a thorny path you've had to walk, and you deserve this simple human happiness like no one else. This is your happy ending, and ahead of you begins a new, equally beautiful story.
And I won't be in it. Because I won't be able to bear it, I'll break. Out of sight, out of mind. Though mine aches, but not as much as it could.
Give my regards to your family, my sincere congratulations to them and to your wonderful bride! Keep this letter in our collection and send me a couple of photos for memory.
With love and best wishes,
Wendy.
I exhale. My hand trembles on the last lines; the handwriting looks a bit shaky, but I don't have the strength to rewrite it. I fold the sheet several times, hide it in an envelope, sealing it tightly as if it's the most intimate secret.
Tomorrow, on the way to work, I'll definitely send it. My much-praised bravery is only enough for that.