You should take comfort in knowing that your letter doesn’t shock me. If anything, I am proud of you to write such sentences. It takes courage, but I know you have a lot of that.

I wonder if we have all, at some point, mistaken silence for deceit. You say we scarcely talk of consequence when we see each other, and yet I think what we do say, even if that doesn’t involve actually saying anything. Like when you lift your brow just so, or when I smile and you understand what I am saying without having said anything at all. What we say is comfort. What we write is clarity. And perhaps we need both. One to keep us tethered, the other to help us fly.

“There is more to him that I enjoy than mere friendship can satisfy.”

There. I’ve written it too, copied your words onto my own page. Does it still frighten you, seeing them now from someone else’s pen?

I will let you in on a little secret: I was once in love with a friend, and while he may have returned those feelings, we were from different worlds that would have never seen us together. But I do know this from feeling something similar to what you might be feeling now: you are not wicked for wanting more than friendship. You are not dishonest for struggling to name that want. You are young still, figuring out the world. Yourself. And you are not alone in being afraid of what it means.

So take your time. Ask your questions. But when you are ready, say the thing you most fear. Say it out loud, not just on paper. It doesn’t have to be to him, not unless you want to.

I promise, you will survive the truth of it.

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