a lesson in running away (the art of returning)

Dear Sophie: lies to tell (like i love you)

Dear Sophie,

The letter I'm leaving you is full of lies.

I wrote your letter knowing you were gonna read it, and maybe that's why most of it isn't true. Like how I tell you to stay away because otherwise you'll hurt the humans I'm hiding with and not because it's easier than saying I love you and not in the way I'm supposed to.

Another lie is this one: I hope you forget all about me.

I don't want to be a memory. I just want to be out of your life. Out of my life and into a new one.

I'm sure you understand. You've restarted how many times?

I wish I could break character around you. You know me better than anyone. You've pried into my mind and examined all my flaws and decided I was worthy anyway, but you still don't know enough.

Ro thinks I'm in love with you. I think your parents do, too. And Alden. And Fitz. Do you think so? I know you think you're being kind by not rejecting me before I confess, but I'm hoping you will anyway. That way, I can tell you the truth.

It's another kind of agony waiting for the confrontation. I know my fake feelings won't be reciprocated, and now it's the guessing game. Do you know? Do I?

That's what this letter is for. For the truth. That's why I'm writing a second one.

Maybe I'll tell you that I'm the empath here. It's teasing when I say it to your face, but now I'm serious for the only time you've known me. Maybe I'll tell you that I've never seen your face when you look at Biana but I still feel your smile. It's roses in the sun, how you feel about her.

Did you know that? Do you feel it gliding over your shoulders, soft and sweet and smelling like her perfume? Do your feelings get caught between your lips until they dissolve on your tongue, glow red in your cheeks when you see her, spread over your eyes until how you see her is tinted pink?

I know the feeling because Biana is like roses but Fitz is like honey. I feel my feelings dripping down my spine, catching in my hair and tangling it with liquid fingers, gilding my vision. He's an in-between, a conundrum, a paradox.

I wish I could have put something in the letter I sent you. Something to give to him. But I was too afraid of saying what I meant.

I'm sorry, if it helps. Maybe it would if you actually knew I apologized. I didn't in the letter I gave you.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry and sorry and sorry and I'll never stop being sorry for what I've done, for what I haven't told you, for what you know.

Yeah, you know me.

I'm sorry about that, too.

I can't talk about this anymore. I want everything to be normal, even though there isn't a normal to return to for you or for me.

The Forbidden Cities are fantastic. Most of the people here are helpful, even to a teenage boy who doesn't know what he's doing. I've learned that I need things besides money and words for most things here, but that's okay. I just won't do them. Maybe someday I'll get a phone, or an email, or an address. I don't know how long I'll be staying in one place.

When I left, I thought I'd have to travel around the world every day to keep myself occupied, but London has plenty. There are parks here, and I've learned that humanity doesn't really hate itself. They're trying to make things greener. They're trying to plant more trees. They just don't know the right ones to use.

I'm writing this in a coffee shop. I've come here every day this week and bought a bagel, a croissant, and some tea. I tried coffee the first day, but it just tasted bitter and made me really tired. Human food can taste good; you weren't lying. You don't lie when it counts.