I'm writing you a letter. A real one. One of the long ones that I never seem to finish, the ones that are more for me than they are for you, clearly, because I have things to tell you that I can't actually ever say. And I hope that, somehow, it reaches you anyway, without me needing to send it or read it out loud. I hope that every word I type finds its way into your head and stays there until you've thought it all out. I really do miss when we said things that mattered, like "I love you" and "I miss you" and "I can't wait to see you". Now it's "I'm writing college applications all the time" and "I'm rowing all the time" and who we are gets lost between stories of what we do. Can we ever find our way back to tea and crumpets and jellybeans on birthdays? Or have we become too familiar too quickly; have those three days of all the things I've ever wanted minus a few ruined the next couple of years of what we could become? That last week in July, I would have told anyone who cared to listen that I wasn't afraid to tell you everything I wanted to, except maybe that I was ready for more. Now, we hardly say anything at all, even when we send each other paragraphs. Maybe we can have all that again, maybe more, maybe not. Maybe I should keep calling you back in my mind because it'll bring you here this summer. Maybe I should stop thinking about you altogether because we've finished all we think we've left undone. I don't know. There is too much uncertainty in our story, too many mysteries between the lines, and I don't want to take the time to sort it out. Can't you see I'm scared?