Chapter Text
Found in the romance section of the West Wing library, inside the leatherbound copy of ‘Pride And Prejudice’ by Jane Austen.
Dearest George,
Writing this feels very deeply unsettling, almost as if I’m betraying myself, or crossing some personal boundary or something. And more so, because I never considered myself the romantic type. This is all new to me. I mean, to write hopeless love notes? Imagine the level of desperation.
But it’s not my fault now, is it? You’re just that beautiful, what do you expect me to do? Every time I look at you, I fall in love.
Really, damn you! Damn you and your soft hair and your pretty eyes, and the right kind of rosiness of your cheeks, and that irresistible curve of your lips. Really just… damn you. And damn me for falling in love with you.
Of all the people, George. Really, of all the people, I can’t believe you were the one who caught my eye. It’s like looking at the moon and wanting it for myself. See how hopeless that is? It’s like the universe hates my guts.
But then again, I could’ve fallen in love with someone like Christian Horner, and then how embarrassed would I have been? Hell, I’m using yours and Horner’s name in the same sentence, something is definitely wrong with me.
Part of me knows these words, these sentiments, they should stay where they belong, in my heart. But things have gotten more complicated than I ever thought they would, and I just—I can't take it anymore.
I don’t even know when I started thinking of you that way, just that one day I looked at you and I did not want to look away. (You were as lovely then as you are now.) I kept telling myself you were just another crush, a one-sided attraction, something I would get over in a couple of days, a few weeks perhaps, but it's been months, and I still think about you all the time.
Every time I open my eyes, I find you near me. Every time I close them; you’re still all I see. Sometimes I wish… I wish I could get a moment away from you, just to sort through my feelings, just to get rid of them. But there are other times, when I don’t even want to, and that hurts. It hurts because you’re you. You’re the golden boy, and in a million years, I could never deserve you. But my heart still insists on being stubborn, you know? Like it has some kind of right to desire you.
And because I’m sick of holding it all in, and because I’m done lying to myself, and because it’s a burden so heavy I can no longer bear it, I want to confess something today.
I know now, what I feel for you, what is inside my heart, it’s much more than plain attraction. No, it’s something that is far too overwhelming to contain. It might even be love. That is not the word I use lightly, but it is also, the only logical explanation I can come up with.
And knowing that I would never, ever be able to tell you any of this, I’m writing this here, on this inconsequential piece of paper, where you will never find it.
A love note, never to be delivered.
But where do I even start, George? Do I say that when I first looked at you, I could not look away? Or do I tell you that that smile of yours, it lights up my entire day?
Or admit, plain and simple, that you’re extraordinary. Or that every time I see you, I find something different to admire?
Like the other day, when you were standing in front of the bookshelf, in a blue floral shirt, (that colour by the way, looked divine on you), your expression alternating between anger and confusion. I wanted to (and pardon my direct approach) hold you against the bookshelf, and kiss you.
Or that yesterday, (and that was the final nail in my coffin), seeing you from the window, as you picked up that small puppy, it at once scared me to my core, and restored my faith in humanity. I’ve always been afraid of dogs. In fact, one of my recurring nightmares is one of them getting on me in my sleep. But you were holding it so delicately, and petting it like it was the most precious thing in the world. It was well… you looked cute. You looked beautiful.
And I… well, I realised I was in love.
But every time I try to tell you any of this, every time I try to say anything more than just your name, my voice betrays me. Every time, something holds me back. But it doesn’t even matter now, does it? Because I’m sure you have better things to do with your time than waste it on a hopeless idiot.
And you deserve better than me anyway.
With all my love,
A certain somebody who can’t help but admire you.
*
Written on the back of the same page.
Dear unknown romantic,
Before I start addressing your grievances, I must say this. I try not to judge people, but really, improve your handwriting. I took me at least an hour to decipher your note, but no worries, I forgive you. I’m the forgiving kind.
You think I have pretty eyes? Aww.. Consider me flattered. I’m assuming this note, letter? was addressed to me, George Russell? Because I’m about ninety present sure that I’m the only George who resides in these godforsaken institute. I was wearing blue a few days ago, and I was also playing with that little dog out in the gardens.
So… I guess that much is sorted.
Now, I don’t know if this was your idea of a joke or something, but since my own life is so dreadfully dull, I’m willing to play along… with this… whatever this is… what is this anyway?
I mean a love letter? Really? In this day and age?
Who even are you? (Although my instinct tells me you’re not going to answer that particular question. I’m probably gonna have to figure that one out on my own.) I believe you’re in my class? Since you know my name, and you know Horner’s name, and you also know that Horner is a not a particularly nice man.
That’s fairly standard though, anyone attending evening classes would know these things. But you, oh boy, you know an awful lot. You knew what part of the library I was in. Hell, you even knew what book I was reading? Stalker much?
But for a stalker, I must say, you’re not very competent. What I mean is, a true stalker would’ve simply found my email address, or my phone number. Trust me, that’s way easier.
‘I looked cute playing with that puppy?’ No one has ever called me cute, and if you had said it to my face, you would know the consequences of such action. And dogs are cute okay, and harmless. Why are you afraid of the poor things? And you don’t have to worry about one getting on you in your sleep. Trust me, these things are smarter than we are.
You think I deserve better than you?
Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?
You’re sure I have better things to spend my time on?
It’s George’s time, and George’s choice. And opinions are neither asked for, and nor required.
I’m not even going to comment on the rest of it, because:
- Appearances are deceptive.
- Believe it or not, I am a modest guy.
Though, next time, and if you really want to woo a man, try putting in some more work. Try spraying some perfume, use a red envelope, embellish it a little bit. Keep it on a shelf with a flower and a chocolate. Although, don’t try that with me, I think it’s downright cheap, but I know at least couple of guys and gals who would be impressed by something like that.
Your handwriting, like I mentioned above, could use some work, and needless to say, the paper quality was rubbish. Your wording was also a little less flowery, try reading some Barbara Cartland, might help.
Or better yet; go to that person you like (who in this case is me) and ask them if they would like to hang out. It’s the less creeper way, and also something a normal person would do.
Sincerely,
George Russell.
P.S. If you truly intend to keep your feelings to yourself, try not leaving them inside library books. That said, feelings can be hard, I know. But talking about them usually helps. You should try that sometime.