Article & Art by Bella Houck
Dear Virginia,
Long time no chat! It’s been a while — since high school graduation. I’ve found myself thinking about how excited we were for college, taking walks around the neighborhood where we’d talk for hours about college, love, and all the mysteries that felt so real at seventeen.
There’s a strange distance between us now, a space I can’t quite understand, and I think it’s my fault.
You called me at 4 a.m., around 8 p.m. your time. I woke up to my phone buzzing and watched your name fade to voicemail. You sent a text after you called. I didn’t respond for days. I wanted to simmer in the ache I feel when you reach out — the slight sweetness in the sting. Like pressing softly on a bruise or picking at a scab, the purity that comes with the pain.
Fear of the library basement; fear of noises from the heater; fear of leaving the straightener plugged in; fear of moths flying into ears; fear of hair getting cut off in the middle of the night; fear of UTIs; fear of not wearing your retainer; fear of men; fear of being vulnerable; fear of being queer; fear of falling; fear of merging onto a highway; fear of saying the wrong thing; fear of shattering glass.
Dear Virginia,
I think there’s some weird irony in writing these letters to you. I’m writing this on Whidbey Island, off the coast of Washington, and I’m starting to get The Feeling again. You know the one.
On the plane, I listened to a podcast called “I Had a Mental Breakdown.” The host talked about how people who suffer from poor mental health have an instinct that the good times are always fleeting, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the past week or so, I’ve felt good. Really good. Happy. Content. Grateful. All the things I so desperately craved last year. But as I drove home, back to my family in Littleton, the shoe slowly became heavier and heavier. I saw Tristan, and we laughed and smoked a joint at the hill where we’d watch sunsets in high school. I told him how much I missed laughing with him and how I wanted him to meet my college friends. I showed him pictures of Natalie, TWIT, Ellement, and my sophomore dorm. My gut seemed to be filling with pieces of lead as we walked around our neighborhood — weighed down by passing hours that fade without warning, like blue light swallowed by night.
Fear of God; fear of Satan; fear of church; fear of tight pants; fear of a nip-slip; fear of middle school; fear of being mediocre; fear of having children; fear of never having children; fear of cancer; fear of a relationship; fear of smoking cigarettes; fear of stuffy noses; fear of friends losing interest in you; fear they laugh behind your back; fear of your little brother hating you; fear of your little brother being right for hating you; fear of the slight gap in between escalator steps; fear of the longing.
Dear Virginia,
I want to tell you about my homesickness during my first year of college. I want to tell you that everything is slowly shrinking, but I stay the same size. I want to tell you about my grand plan to move to Oregon and live in a cottage along the coast surrounded by crashing waves and pine trees. I want to tell you about a new record I got that reminds me of you. I want to tell you that I wish I were cigarette smoke in an underground jazz club — swirling, dipping, and diving over people’s heads, slightly seen but never acknowledged.
We used to talk about how badly we wanted to leave Littleton and explore "adulthood." You told me about your first kiss, and I told you about mine; both were painfully awkward. We used to talk about “feeling deeply," and I told you that The Feeling could swallow me whole if I’m not careful. We used to drive around for hours in my old Honda Accord with the windows down, even though it was winter. We used to talk about how all great love poems should be written by women.
I want to tell you I’m sorry for pushing you away. I want to tell you why I don’t respond to your texts, but I’m not even sure I know myself. I want to tell you that this bright red button in my head flashes when anyone shows romantic interest in me, telling me to run. I want to tell you that The Feeling comes back when the sky is a bruised purple and my throat becomes sore.
Fear of getting a bad grade; fear of failing the test; fear of a nine-to-five career; fear of being stuck behind a desk your whole life; fear of hating your boss; fear of becoming an alcoholic; fear of becoming (too much of) a stoner; fear of being stupid; fear of hating the college you chose; fear that no one likes you; fear of missing out; fear of death; fear of food poisoning; fear of getting old; fear of growing old alone; fear of smelly feet; fear of heart attacks; fear of heartaches.
Dear Virginia,
I’m thinking about how much I want to walk around in the cold winter air with you, our hot breaths puffing out words unsaid between us. I want to go back and pick up your call this summer and put on the “Bella-smile,” as you used to say, and talk again. I want to tell you I miss you.
Virginia, what if I never experience the entirety of love because I’m too afraid of being forgotten? Too afraid of not being good enough? Too afraid they’ll leave me, and I’ll cut open my chest and hold my still-beating heart as penance. What I’m trying to say is: I’m sorry. I’m sorry I can’t be normal about this. Instead, I’m writing you letters you’ll never read because I’m too consumed by blue melancholy to send them.
Fear of the planet collapsing in on itself; fear of blackholes; fear of climate change; fear of nuclear war; fear of history; fear of stubbing your toe; fear of forgetting to wear cute underwear on a date; fear of blisters from new shoes; fear of splinters; fear of getting too drunk; fear of acting on drunken impulses; fear of finishing that really good book; fear of throwing away your childhood blanket; fear of being spit on; fear of using too much tongue when making out; fear of The Feeling.
Dear Virginia,
I want to call you right now.
There’s no snow in Littleton, Colorado because the sun has already melted it all away. Instead, it’s bitterly cold, with chunks of ice peppering the dirt pathway. The tip of my nose has frozen over with rhythmic sniffs to keep the snot at bay. It’s only 6 p.m., but the sky quickly darkens, pulling a blue blanket across my eyes.
The houses I walk by have yellow windows. Different lamps illuminate the inside, like jack-o’lanterns, exposing the leftover guts and seeds. I’ve always found these windows nostalgic. Watching people go about menial evening tasks while you’re outside, shrouded in blue light.