January 19, early afternoon
Glenn wrote the same letter twice, on two separate sheets of white stationery, and sealed them both in ivory-colored envelopes with that familiar oak symbol embossed in red wax. The letters were written in Glenn's familiar perfect cursive. Once he had finished with his writing, he walked into town, bundled up tightly against the brutal winter wind and cold. By the time he had made it inside the walls of the city, it felt like his fingers, ears, and nose were going to fall off, even though he had taken pains to cover as much of his exposed flesh as he could with his dark blue gloves, hat, and scarf. He quickly hailed a carriage to take him closer to the center of town, where more pages hung out. It took him a long time to find them, but eventually he convinced two couriers, one a short, ill-dressed boy of about 18 years and the other a tall, willowy elven girl of approximately the same age, to deliver his messages. He sent the lad, who looked sicker and less prepared for the weather, to the closer of the two destinations with his letter: the Stitch in Time. He sent the elf, with more money to cover the additional cost of cab fare, to 1919 Fendall Road. He wasn't quite sure where Lydia was living these days, but he figured if he sent one to her job and to the address he knew about, hopefully his message would get there. Once he was certain the two knew where they were going, he scurried off to the Marketplace. Browsing around the stores inside sounded like a good way to beat the chill.
***
Dear Lydia,
First of all, I wanted to say that I'm sorry. I think I've been letting Carley's anger affect the way I've been thinking, and I shouldn't have. If you want me to, I can talk to Carley about it, but it's up to you whether or not you want me to do that.
Second, I'm sorry that my first letter didn't get to you. I guess I should've spent a little more money and had it sent with a better mail service. Maybe things would've been better if you'd read that. Some of the stuff I say here is going to be stuff I would've said to you in that letter.
Third, I wanted to say that I'm sorry for not saying anything after you said that I had no right to be mad. I'm not very good at talking, and sometimes I just chose to sit in awkward silence rather than try to find something to say, whether it's a good thing or a bad thing or whatever. I didn't want to make you mad, and I ended up making you mad anyways.
The thing is, I really did want to say something, but I don't know if there's anything I could say to make things better. I guess some people say ?I know how you feel,? and I didn't want to say that. Because I don't know how you feel. I don't know how you think. I can't. Nobody really can. Not the friends who've known you for years. Not me. I can only guess what you're going through, and I can only guess based on what I know of you and what I've learned about you from being your friend. Even if you tell me how you feel, I might screw it up anyways.
All I can say is what I've said before. If you ever need anything, whatever time it is, stop by. I guess I might not know what to say, but I can at least listen to you, for what that's worth. I'm really sorry about what happened, and I really hope that you still think of me as a friend.
Sincerely,
Glenn
Glenn wrote the same letter twice, on two separate sheets of white stationery, and sealed them both in ivory-colored envelopes with that familiar oak symbol embossed in red wax. The letters were written in Glenn's familiar perfect cursive. Once he had finished with his writing, he walked into town, bundled up tightly against the brutal winter wind and cold. By the time he had made it inside the walls of the city, it felt like his fingers, ears, and nose were going to fall off, even though he had taken pains to cover as much of his exposed flesh as he could with his dark blue gloves, hat, and scarf. He quickly hailed a carriage to take him closer to the center of town, where more pages hung out. It took him a long time to find them, but eventually he convinced two couriers, one a short, ill-dressed boy of about 18 years and the other a tall, willowy elven girl of approximately the same age, to deliver his messages. He sent the lad, who looked sicker and less prepared for the weather, to the closer of the two destinations with his letter: the Stitch in Time. He sent the elf, with more money to cover the additional cost of cab fare, to 1919 Fendall Road. He wasn't quite sure where Lydia was living these days, but he figured if he sent one to her job and to the address he knew about, hopefully his message would get there. Once he was certain the two knew where they were going, he scurried off to the Marketplace. Browsing around the stores inside sounded like a good way to beat the chill.
***
Dear Lydia,
First of all, I wanted to say that I'm sorry. I think I've been letting Carley's anger affect the way I've been thinking, and I shouldn't have. If you want me to, I can talk to Carley about it, but it's up to you whether or not you want me to do that.
Second, I'm sorry that my first letter didn't get to you. I guess I should've spent a little more money and had it sent with a better mail service. Maybe things would've been better if you'd read that. Some of the stuff I say here is going to be stuff I would've said to you in that letter.
Third, I wanted to say that I'm sorry for not saying anything after you said that I had no right to be mad. I'm not very good at talking, and sometimes I just chose to sit in awkward silence rather than try to find something to say, whether it's a good thing or a bad thing or whatever. I didn't want to make you mad, and I ended up making you mad anyways.
The thing is, I really did want to say something, but I don't know if there's anything I could say to make things better. I guess some people say ?I know how you feel,? and I didn't want to say that. Because I don't know how you feel. I don't know how you think. I can't. Nobody really can. Not the friends who've known you for years. Not me. I can only guess what you're going through, and I can only guess based on what I know of you and what I've learned about you from being your friend. Even if you tell me how you feel, I might screw it up anyways.
All I can say is what I've said before. If you ever need anything, whatever time it is, stop by. I guess I might not know what to say, but I can at least listen to you, for what that's worth. I'm really sorry about what happened, and I really hope that you still think of me as a friend.
Sincerely,
Glenn