Dear No. 01,

You’re my first letter, how amazing is that. I feel like the first letter should be the best, because if anyone else were to read these letters apart from their own, I’d assume majority of people would read in numerical order. Humans have a strange proclivity for seriality. Not to get too deep, because I know sometimes my emo existentialism can stress you, but what does it even mean to be best in terms of amorphous words? I’d assume the perfectionism in you would have a good answer for me.

I’ve been enjoying our weekly bibimbap orders and Overcooked tournaments, or the movie and pimple-patch nights. I don’t say it often, but I’m really happy we’re friends. You’ve always been there. I can’t recall a specific moment that marks the beginning of our friendship. It’s one of the gradual, tender realizations—like our pepper plant! You’re very confident in what you say and your choices, which I admire. You stick to your beliefs, but also accommodate when asked. I think we’re also much more similar than I originally perceived. We think very similarly, in absolutes and objectives, which makes having conversations with you very spicy.

Your book is cute. It’s been feeding the teenage angsty part of my conscience, and I’m living for it. I can’t wait to see it fully polished and out on the shelves. I’ll be the first to buy a copy, and I’ll reread it until it withers away, because it’s just so warm and homey. You’re actually writing part of what I believe to be chapter 7 as I write this. Meaning, you’re sitting next to me as I write this letter—feels very cinematic, very privately intimate, my own little secret to write to you with your physical proximity.

For someone I talk to so frequently I’d assumed I’d have more to write for you, but this is the extent of my over caffeinated pathos. Until next time!


©2020 maura lian