Dear ______,
Is it strange that I can see us growing old together, never actually sure if we're in love but settling because this is the closest - even though I really think that the closest was the way I felt about my art teacher when I was ten years old - we've ever gotten and will ever get to it; that I can see you remaining a declared introvert but reluctantly succumbing to the influence of a closeted extrovert when we make pancakes together on a Sunday morning and I smear flour on your nose and laugh, to which you haughtily reply, "THE NERVE!" and storm out of the kitchen only to return ten seconds later to tickle me to my demise; that I can see us fighting because you're dull when I'm reckless and you're reckless when I'm dull and it's a shame, isn't it, that we're right for each other at all the wrong times; that I can see us having silent picnics on Wednesday afternoons, silent, at first, because we have all of the questions and none of the answers, and silent, at last, because we have all of the answers and none of the questions; that I can see our pillow talk consisting solely of puns, but I don't think that's a bad thing, do you?
Is it stranger still, that I can see so well, despite the fact that they tell me my vision is on a very steady decline?
What I'm trying to say is: I really do think that I like you.
I think we should be friends.
I think we should be collaborators.
I think we should take twenty-five thousand words each, to start.
Katie
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