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Dear *Marcus,

I almost messaged you. Again.

It wasn’t to apologize. Or ask you another awkward question. Or discuss whatever you discuss during watershed hours.

Because it was 12:45 a.m., a few days before Canada Day.

And I had stormed from my house. Wearing sleep shorts and a hoodie. I was streaming Spotify over my Smartphone to calm me down. Though it was late, people were outside. And I felt safe. Upset. Confused. But safe.

Sure, I could’ve messaged a friend. But at 12:45 a.m. on a Tuesday, who would be up? Of course, who’s to say you’d be up – even with the time change.

But when you’re irrational and walking on a poorly lit sidewalk in the dark – I never realized the lack of streetlights in this town – rational thinking isn’t your forte.

So, I hovered in the Messenger textbox. And I typed just one letter.

Then, I remembered something you said when I called you in November, 1998. And I waited for you to hang up on me – which you didn’t. Even though you had every right.
Fast forward to “12:45 a.m.” night, and I closed out of Messenger. I tucked my phone in my pocket. Common sense prevailed: there would be no a.m. PM.

On my way home, I stopped and snapped a photo of the sliver of moon. It was just a hazy slice against a stark backdrop. Which further depressed me as I wondered through the dark.

I felt lonely. Like, lonely-lonely. I couldn’t contact you, or anyone else. It was nearly 1:30 a.m. when I made it home. Oddly enough, there were people outside. Or I could see light from their TVs. Which was comforting – and weird. What was keeping them up? Stress? Anxiety? Winding down after a late shift?

When I crawled into bed, I wondered about my life. How did I become someone afraid to express her feelings? Not opinions, but my deep seeded emotions.

I used to say what I wanted to say. Or in this case, write. I tell people I’m an open book. But am I?

Because I’m hiding behind a pen name. Writing letters, working out my feelings. My suppressed, long overdue feelings. Reflecting on the past. Finding myself. Realizing more than I imagined in the process.

Maybe it’s best I didn’t send you a message.

Some conversations are best kept in the dark.

Always,

Tessa

********
*Names changed for privacy

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