James wrote letters to all of the people in his life and stored them in the drawer of his desk. He used these letters to say all of the things that he couldn’t say in person, either because it was physically impossible, or simply too emotionally grueling to handle.
He wrote a letter to his emotionally distant mother, who lived just down the hall. They didn’t talk much anymore; he wanted to know why. He wanted to thank her for raising him on her own, he knew it couldn’t have been easy. He never really knew how to express it, he just wanted her to know that he appreciated it. Kids don’t know how to say thanks, at least not in a way that feels genuine or meaningful. He hoped she was okay; she just seemed unhappy lately.
He wrote a letter to his absentee father, a man he never knew. James had a lot of questions for him, mostly. “Why didn’t you want me? How could you do that to mom? Are you just a coward, or is there something more to it?” James had managed to grow into a fine young man, even without a real father figure, but he couldn’t help but wonder how things might be different if he had known the man. Maybe he was really a good man, overwhelmed and full of shame, too scared to come back and face the son he had left, an infant in a bassinet who hadn’t yet learned how cruel the world could and would be. Or maybe he was just a son of a bitch.
James wrote a letter to his best friend, Matt. It expressed all of the things that he really felt, how grateful he was to have someone to confide in, to laugh with, and someone to make him feel like he wasn’t so goddamn alone all of the time. James knew it was hard to tell Matt these things, because of the way friendships worked. He could try and convey a genuine thought, and Matt could turn around and make fun of him, and honestly, James would understand. It’s not that Matt doesn’t feel the same way, or that he doesn’t appreciate the sentiment, it’s just the way the friends have grown to relate to one another. It’s a cultural thing, you grow up with friends and they become the people that you can trust, but also the people that you can make fun of. You both know that you don’t mean anything by it, it’s the most innocent possible joking, it defuses tension and allows friends to laugh through the tough times. James was thankful to have Matt, but he figured that Matt knew that, so he filed the letter away in the desk with the rest of them.
He wrote a letter to the girl he loved from afar. They hadn’t really talked much, outside of idle chitchat. They worked at the same place, an office hub for a major corporation. He worked in sales, she worked in marketing. She was bright, funny, and creative, which James loved. He was sort of boring, but he knew that they could hit it off if he could work up the nerve to say something. He also knew that she had a boyfriend and he seemed nice, he didn’t wish him any ill will, because he really did care about this girl who might not even know his name. If it didn’t work out with the guy who seemed nice, maybe she could find it in her heart to give him a shot.
He wrote a letter to himself; in reality, all of these letters were to himself, but this one was explicitly directed to James. He told himself all of the things he respected about the way he carries himself. It might seem self-serving to an outsider, but sometimes it’s important to let yourself know that you’re not a complete and total fuck-up. He treated people with a level of respect that he thought was admirable, he tried not to condescend. And then, in the second paragraph, he got into all of the things that he found troubling about himself. He was too scared to do the things that he really wanted to do, afraid that he might upset someone or worse, disappoint them. He wrote these letters that said lots of honest, wonderful, and sometimes painful things, but he couldn’t bring himself to say them out loud. And as he drew the letter to a close, he told himself that he can be better, and that he was committed to it.
But James wasn’t going to mail those letters out. They were never for anyone but him.
