Wishes..

"It is on the books and tattooed in my brain. Breathing words and staring pages. I don't know how she got there and how to join her. I wouldn't ask her. But I know I will get there.
I wouldn't ask her.
I won't ask her.
Don't ask her."

"-Excuse me.
These eyes.
-Yes.
-I, uh, am a reader. I love your books, so much it made me wonder: what kind of magic do you use?
This voice.
-It's magic. A pit no one sees it's bottom but me.
This face.
-I see. But seriously, I want to do stuff like yours but it's hard. I can't bring myself to.
-You'll figure a way out.
And I walk away. I have to walk away. But it surprises me as much as it frightens me; all my life I've seen faces and eyes so beautiful but wasn't startled much. Not that hard. Not that bad. I am blushing. He is staring. Probably raging, swearing never to touch my books again. What was I supposed to say? One stupid phrase I'd call writing advice, definitely. Now, I'm already yards away. God, I shouldn't have walked away. Not too soon. Not too weirdly.
Well, let's just hope it gets buried under the days to come."

"I must have been brutal. I must have been rude. The sight of her walking away doesn't leave me for days. How long has it been already? Oh yeah. A month. A whole long month without one other thought but that.
I should have expected it. Writers never give their secrets no matter what they tell you. Never count on a magician to explain his game. As grandmother says.
Damn, I must have looked bad.
Damn. The homework. Focus on the homework.
Crap. I must have been bad. Did I comb my hair neatly before I left. God."

"'You got mail.'
'Oh yeah?'
'I can read it for you if you want.'
'No. Private.'
'Seriously? Fan mail is private?'
I turn the laptop to me as my friend eyes me suspiciously.
'No boyfriend. I swear.'
She smiles and goes back to her book.
It's a plain, so unextraordinary mail. The last line made my head spin.
'I might have freaked you out the last time. My apologies. Won't try to put my head into that pit of secrets of yours again. Keep the good writing on.'
He didn't include a name, nor did he leave a letter. Anonymous. Gorgeous. Mysterious.
I hate it when my mind goes empty just to echo his voice. Rhyming stupid things about him.
I don't even know him."

"'Look! Oh, no. Look buddy, she answered me. Ah!'
I read the mail six times to make out the meaning for my mind couldn't stop screaming her name and every word was an echo of my thoughts.
Damn, who had known there would come a day where I'd receive a mail from a famous person.
'Hey. I owe you a walk.' I shout at my dog as my mind screams I'M GOING TO WALK INTO YOU SOMEWHERE NEAR THE PARK.
Stupid, stupid mind."

"He doesn't email back. Damn. Must have sounded too pretentious. Too aggressive, maybe? Naah, I would never say stupid things about writing. No advise. These are just lies to boost hope. I'm not a liar, even if it demands to ignore his questions.
If he really wants to be writer, he'd figure out a way. Someway. God knows how badly I suffered to get here."

"Everything I type is not good enough. Doubt is home. It makes everything I try to make dead. I'm afraid I'd mess everything up with this bad writing. I print her mail out, stick it above my bed and stare at it every morning. What makes me go all day with a smile on the face."

"He'd email."

"She'd email."

"Maybe she's busy writing her new book."

"Maybe his busy figuring a way out."

"But no matter what."

"I'm waiting."

"And I found it. The right thing to write to her. One short story someone from secondary school sent me back when all the girls crushed on me. It is nothing much. Hilarious. Awful. It'd be funny if I sent it to her and told her the story. I'd tell her how bad writing could be without the guidance of masters like her, not that I write that badly bug enough to make her drop at least one little peace of advice.
And send me something.
Her other mail, I got it by heart."

"EMAIL.
He says he's got something to share. A story from the old days someone *not special* sent him.
I think he'd cute. The I think he's the cutest. No he's what happens when beautiful and handsome meet. He's everything.
He.."

"She never email back. And it's been three weeks since I sent mine. I start to worry. Maybe I sounded too mean?"

"That story. I wrote it. He's that boy from school. He's been too mean. When I thought I had no friend and thought he was kind. I sent it to him. It seemed brilliant by the time. He threw it on my face and said I'm not worth his time. I didn't even mean it as a love confession.
All his old mails, everything. I delete. Delete, delete, delete. Then smash the laptop. Smash the desk. Kick the walls.
In my head.
I don't dare touch my laptop. His emails will stare back at me, remind me of the bad days. He came back to unearth the past.
Damn him. Damn.
Beautiful is a lie but no one could tell.
And me, I get what I get and nothing more."

"One mail, two, three. One million."

"I will never open them."

"I will never rest.
I google her name."

"Does he know I'm using a pseudonym?"

"March, June, July, August.
August 31.
Her birthday.
The author that made hard times easier and kept me up all night. And a good-hearted person."

"So many Fan Mail.
Every kind word makes a difference. I spend half the day responding to them. All of them.
And one. Just one. Kept me up that night."

"'I'm sorry.
Time is just like the tide. It takes everything with it.
It spins us. And the lonely girl with the long braid is a grand writer. The mean boy with the sharp words is crazily, deeply into everything she makes.
I'm sorry, Yosr'"

Author:Wiem Jelleli