𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚛, 𝙻𝚊𝚠𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎

𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚛, 𝙻𝚊𝚠𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 ; 𝟸𝟾 ; 𝙵𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚂𝚞𝚗

𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚛, 𝙻𝚊𝚠𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 ; 𝟸𝟾 ; 𝙵𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚂𝚞𝚗

𝙸𝙸𝙸𝙸𝙸

Dear, Lawrence

I don't have a lot of time to write today. I can't explain, but you will see why.

It's tough to sit in an empty house, Columbin gone with Jane and dad's funeral being set up for tomorrow. The florists rush me, the burial officials stand at my door like crows, but all I do is think about you.
Right before he died, he pulled me in. He didn't want you guys there, although he loves you he wanted me and Columbin by his side, to watch as he reunited with mom.
He smiled at me, with just mere minutes until he was gone. He asked me about you. He asked if we were together, he said he felt like we were. I chuckled at him, shaking my head no solemnly. He knew there was more, he had me explain everything, take his mind off of the situation.
He told me a similar thing happened with him and mom. He wasn't supposed to be with her, he snuck her out from her nice house and took her to the place he lived, between the bricks and railroad tracks. She said she loved him, but he never knew if she loved him or the thrill of rebellion.
He quickly found out when she left her family for him.
He said he never had to go through this, almost losing her, but he knew it would be okay. He said he felt it, as if the angels were telling him to make sure I persisted.
He told me to tell you he loved you, and to keep baking.
I laugh while I write this, only because of the irony in the situation.
Please keep baking, Lawrence.

Love, Tate

𝙸𝙸𝙸𝙸𝙸

I sat at a picnic table under a cherry blossom, blooming for the coming spring. I was writing down an essay that my professor is forcing me to write, even though I haven't had any schooling for years. My hand is cramping from the brush pen I was using, but it was worth it, because I was going to make everybody proud.
I needed the validation, and I can apologize for being so unbelievably attached to Tate that I need his validation, but I won't apologize for wanting to feel good after feeling bad for so long. I just won't.
Instead, I'll try to finish this essay that seems impossible to write with the aching in my soul. The aching of my bruised and picked skin, my cheeks and eyes from the crying I've done recently, and my ultimately crushed heart.
My grip on the pen tightened before I dotted my last I and crossed my last t, and then quickly gave out. The impact of the pen made ink spill out of the cartridge and onto my hands and my dress. I couldn't be mad, I didn't really care anymore, I just sigh at the scene.
Mr. Fitz was apparently my personal tutor. although additionally a professor for english. I never understood english degrees, as if I didn't know enough already. I watch as he slips out of the open glass-paned wooden doors, his button up tucked into his dark, belted pants. He was gorgeous, I couldn't help but admire him. He made me wonder if I truly would be stuck on Tate for forever.
However, my mind was more preoccupied with the embarrassment of ink covering my hands and dress like a toddler. I just closed the cap and wiped the ink all over my used-to-be-green day dress, I had no use to be presentable when I'm already looking so ridiculous. I got up from the picnic table I was at, watching as he beckoned me into his classroom once more with one finger. I went back into his empty, dark, wooden classroom and handed him the messy, incomplete paragraphs.
I felt so stupid.
I used to be smart, so smart. Grade school and secondary school I was one of the smartest ones, teachers begged me to be something, to take advantage of any ounce of respect I could get for being a literate woman. I never did, and here I am, feeling for the first month of my life, so incredibly stupid.
"Well..." Mr. Fitz begins, tapping his stubbled jaw with the end of a fountain pen. "You could use work on your penmanship," He laughs, "But, I see your intelligence, love."