My dear,
I had my doubts about starting this, writing these letters to nowhere. Never meant to be sent nor read, written to a man that I have feelings for though I shouldn't.
I knew from the very start that I liked you. And now you know it, too. I don't know how, but you figured it out - this deep, shameful feeling so clearly reeking of sin, so obviously wrong that I tried to tuck it into the deepest drawer, darkest corner of my mind. Did the smell gave it away? The stench so unmistakable with anything else that you had to dig it up, bring it to the surface and force me to look into the carcass of whatever this is. And I do. And I'm scared. And I know you're scared too.
This is a lovely introduction to whatever it is that follows. All the things I've written and will write to you and about you on trains, buses, plains, sleepless nights, hiding in bathrooms, while smoking around the corner.
I would love to promise that it will be like a good teenage novel, focused on butterflies, girls so pretty you want to die, daydreams... But I don't want to lie. You know better than anyone that I can't do that.
So I'll do what I always do when I'm scared. I'll just start and leave the rest to fate - or my incredibly stupid mind - to fill in the gaps and yap.
11/12/2025
I remember standing in the middle of some pub, and having 'fun', and there was plenty of people around me - boozed up coworkers, guys who are clearly into football, girls of all ages with long hair filled with extensions and dresses that are too short... The typical English fairies smelling of coconut and beer were singing karaoke and dancing around me.
And in the middle of all that Christmassy, hive-ish rush I just stood still.
The Fairytale of New York was playing - and someone was doing their best to shout in tune - and all I could think about is how I'm not with you. Or you're not with me. How am I here in the midst of all these people and so far away. What am I doing?
And how even before this got out, every robin I saw reminded me of you.
And you might be Batman - the man that you want everyone to see. The one that everyone else does see. One part of you might truly be that. But there's another one, the scarier one. That one is something soft, and gentle, and definitely not that. That's why in my head when I talk to you, and I do that a lot, I call you, and I shit you not, my beautiful, beautiful creature. Because you have no idea how beautiful you actually are. Maybe not by your standards, but by mine you are spectacular.
And it might seem like I invented the whole spell bit that I told you about and just adjusted the goddamn description. I did not. That's true. Every word of it. There were also bright, light blue eyes, and love for cats, and things that grow, and adventure, and bravery, and music. I really thought I cheated the system with the hair and the star bit - noone has a favourite shape. No ones hair is like that.
And I really want you to hear how it sounds like when I call your name - when I'm alone. When there's noone around.
I know you think that so many things about you are bad things. Downsides. Like being geeky. Or strange. Or weird. Dear, I couldnt care less. I could apply all those words to myself. They make you who you are - a delightfully peculiar ball of spiky fluff, and all I want to do is put your head on my chest and just hold you there caressing your hair.
That's my kind of protection. I can't give you the safety in muscle and force. All I have to offer is only a bubble of warmth and knowing that I look at you and see you, and accept you as you are - no bullshit, or batman, or manly man shit. I see the scars and I want to hear the stories of what left them, and go over them with my fingers instead of blades to show that there is not only pain that lies there, but also gentleness and care. I am not afraid of you. You can't hurt me, and even if you do, I can take it.
What I'm scared of is how much I'm going to hurt you.
I often get glimpses of you being happy. You know, like how you used to be before we knew. Laughing with no care in the world. Just smiling from ear to ear. Just. Fucking. Smiling. And I want that for you. And I'll do what I can to give that to you.
In the world that damaged us (and I won't say 'broke'. We're not crazy, or broken, or beyond repair), the world of nightmares, we are the Court of Dreams, my dear. We are the Court of the insane, the weird, the delightfully crazy. We are ugly, and scarred, and have a bit too much sorrow and longing in our blood. But we also have beauty, art, music and feeling at the cores of our being. And whatever happens, we're never going to lose it. Now, on top of that, we have each other.
You have me.
And until you shoo me away like a flock of pesky pigeons feasting on a discarded subway sandwich, I'll be there.
You just have to say a word.