Her Name Was December

Day 14

As the countdown started, Greyson tore another wrinkled sheet of paper from his spiral-bound notebook and set it in front of him on the desk. The loud voices of uninvited party guests echoed through the house and shook the walls around him. Greyson started off writing the same two words he always did.

Dear December, he wrote, feeling like a stranger in his own home full of strangers. After Michael showed up unexpectedly at his door, his house seemed to fill up more and more people throughout the night.

“Greyson, buddy,” Mike had said with a smile, “You don’t get out much, so I figured I’d bring the party to you! You better be a great host.” he winked and pat Greyson on the back, letting himself into the house. “And hey, it’s New Years. I invited a few hotties; get yourself a kiss for me.”

As the clock ticked closer to midnight and the roar of voices pierced his ears, Greyson got increasingly doubtful of who the host was at this party. He’d locked himself in his bedroom for the three hours since the party started, left to listen to the sounds of blaring music and drunk college kids inevitably creating chaos in his living room. He’d once heard yelping and giggling pass his door, followed by thumping down the hall toward the guest bedroom. He hoped it wasn’t what he thought it was.

“HAPPY NEW YEAR!” the guests shouted in unison. The consistent murmuring from the small crowd died down for a few minutes and disappeared behind the dynamite bass of the music; an odd silence Greyson could only assume was the couples sucking face to celebrate the annual progression of time.

This is sort of a useless holiday, don’t you think? Greyson continued to write. It’s just an excuse for couples to have a celebratory fuck and for the feeble to ‘start over’ and set goals for themselves that they won’t put any effort into reaching. Tomorrow really isn’t going to feel any different. Or, I guess it’s today...? I’m not sure.

Greyson figured that what he’d written was pretty irrelevant to his point, (which was to confess his love to December) so he tore the page out of the notebook and tossed it in a ball somewhere near the trash can. Inevitably, it didn’t make it in. He heard more thumping and giggling come from the other room and choked down a gag as he started another fresh letter. 

You’d think that after all these letters I’ve written I would have gotten better at this by now. Words just aren’t my thing, I guess. That’s what makes talking to you so hard; I can never find the right words to say. Your stupid, dumb, beautiful face doesn’t make it any easier. Just saying.

I dropped a tear in the ocean the day you came into my life. The day that I find it is the day I'll stop loving you.

...

God help me, I’m so sorry. That was the cheesiest thing I’ve ever said. I’m terrible at this love thing.

At least, I think this is love.

It’s just that every time I look at you, I can’t help but think of how great it would be to hold you in my arms and look at your perfect face and cook you dinner and buy you flowers and get lost in your beautiful eyes and maybe even kiss you, if you’d let me.

Is that what love is? You seem like the type of person who’s loved before, but I know zero about you and anything I guess about your backstory could be horribly wrong. So I won’t guess. 

I really want to know more about you, though. Just saying. Again.

Look at this shit. I’ve gone soft. What have you done to me, December?

Greyson shook his head as he raked his fingers through his hair, sighing. He folded the sheet of paper into as neat of a square as he could muster and walked over to his bed. Kneeling beside it, he reached beneath the frame and pulled out a small shoebox. When he opened it, it was filled with other folded and crumpled papers; a mess of incoherent scribbles and babbling that he doesn’t remember the half of. He buried the slip of paper beneath others and slid the shoebox of letters December would never read back under his bed.

All at once, his door slammed open. Greyson jumped and stood up swiftly to see a couple crash against his wall. They swapped saliva with a passion that Greyson found more nauseating than romantic, and the girl’s shirt was already halfway torn off. Their breathing was heavy and deep as they vigorously gasped and sucked the air in longing for more of the other.

“Oh, God!” Greyson yelled, covering his eyes. “People need to stop having sex in my house!”