Sincerely Love

PHILLIP

Today was the day he was finally going to confess to her. “Stephanie, I… I really like y-you.” How hard could that be, Phillip?! Apparently, very. He couldn’t say it without stuttering, even in his fantasy. “Y-you” is not a word any woman wants to hear, is it? Try again. “Stephanie. You probably haven’t noticed me, but I have noticed you. I really like you.” Oh, God! Well, whatever, it didn’t matter what he’d say or how, he had his letter. As long as he actually managed to approach her and somehow got her to accept it, that would be enough. Stephanie would read it and she’d instantly fall in love with him. He was so much better at pouring his heart onto a piece of paper than, you know… talking to people.

This is why he enrolled in the 12-week writing class to begin with; Phillip liked playing to his strengths. She was the exact opposite. Stephanie took the course because she felt her writing skills were nowhere near acceptable, and she wanted to spruce them up, improve on her weak points. He could tell this was how she felt, even though her work was among the best in the class. Maybe even better than his. Nah, not really, but he liked listening to her read her stories in front of the class much more than he enjoyed his own. Man, that little fable she wrote for homework after week three! The one with the squirrel and the moose who forged an unlikely friendship when united with a common goal - defeating the snobby badgers at chess. It was so cute, soooo adorable. Phillip rewrote the story from memory and stuck on post-it notes with plenty of feedback. He color coded them, too. It was mostly just praise, but he weaved a constructive critique or two here and there. She could become an even better writer with his help.

Ever since he first laid eyes on her, he started planning their date. She sat in the first bench and he in the last, so he’d constantly stare at her strawberry blonde hair and her colorful, hand-woven sweaters, which he guessed (hoped?) were her own designs. He’d barely listen to the old lady writing instructor while she droned on and on about “conflict” and “depth of character.” All he could think of was gazing into Stephanie’s green eyes as she held his hands on their first date, discussing their favorite books or least favorite Star Wars films. Of course, whenever he actually had an opportunity to make eye contact with Stephanie, he’d look away. It was almost a physiological reaction at this point. He wanted to, he really did. He tried meeting her gaze, maybe casually smiling, God forbid winking playfully. But no dice. Week after week of agonizing internal dialogue, weighing the pros and cons of the possible approach, what he’d say, how she’d react - gasp - what if she rejected him? All of it leading to this. The final week. The final class. He’d have no other chance.

Phillip started writing the love letter the very same day he first saw her. He wrote it alongside all the other writing assignments, rewrote it and edited it endlessly. Frankly, he put much more thought into every single syllable of that letter than he did the short stories and essays he timidly read in front of the class, never looking up. After 12 weeks, the letter was finally done. He had written something he was happy with. Something he hoped Stephanie would be happy with, too. This letter right here.

She would read it and she’d happily say “yes” and they’d start dating and, okay, then she’d fall in love with him, not right after reading the letter. But she would. Because of this letter, this one right here.

Phillip was reading it over and over as he briskly marched towards the bus stop, barely evading traffic and pedestrians, his face almost merging with the page. He was late. When he printed the letter out this morning he realized inkjet on white A4 wouldn’t do it justice. Not by a long shot. It would be much better if he wrote it out by hand. He tried a dozen different pens, font styles and colors of paper, until he settled on a match he deemed an appropriate fit. Light purple linen finish paper, zesty orange ink pen, cursive font.

The first one he wrote perfectly. Almost. He couldn’t decide between Sincerely yours, Phillip or Love, Phillip. What he ended up signing the letter with was:

Sincerely love, PhD̸̦̣̘̲͚̳̯̻͗̅͐̂͜͠F̴̛̩̟̟͙̟͚̠̹͔̲̲̟͈̻͗̊̉͋͊͝G̸͙͖̥͎̘̓̊̍̈̑͊̔͆͌̔̊̐̚J̴̡̢̡͚͈̜̞̟̘̫̱̠̿̋̚͘͜͜͜S̷̛̛̼͂̅̂́̀̈́̆͂͝͠͠L̴̦̟̗͉͚͚̣̦̓ͅK̷̡̲̩̙̃̐̋̄̄̈̒̈́̃͘Ĕ̴̡̡͓̹̦͔͍̝̀̇̃̅̆͝͝D̸̬͓̪̞̟̉͒̏̔G̶̢͚͔̗̙͎̪̯̭͑͆̑̌̆͋̌͘͠J̶̧̨̢͚̮̝̻̖̼̩̰̲͓̈́̉̈̀̑͑̐̍͐͘͝Ṡ̵̞̰̺̈́͐͗͐̽̋̈̀̽͝Ķ̴̡͍̣̳̩̫̫͋̉̔ͅĘ̷̪̦̪͔̠̗̒̿̎̔̈̾̅͝D̶̰̮̻̰̠̬̺͈͂̀̏ͅͅG̵̢̪͖̳̦̗̳̼̯̗̻̉͂͋́̀̕̕͝J̵̧̛̯̣͓̣̀̀̑̍͌́.

Sincerely love?! He almost broke the pen scribbling furiously over his name until the ink bled through the page. He’d just ruined half an hour of painstaking work. Luckily, he had another light purple paper. Phillip wrote the letter again, making sure not to misspell any word or miss any punctuation. It wasn’t as pretty as the first one because he had to rush to make the bus on time, but it had no errors. None he could see, at least. He’d read it six times already during the seven-minute walk towards the bus stop; now he was at number seven. Hey, what if he read the letter himself, instead of his final assignment? In front of the whole class, occasionally lifting his gaze from the page to lock eyes with Stephanie in the front row. Was it just a huge coincidence that the last assignment was a letter? “Write a piece of correspondence to any person - historic, living or fictional. 1500 words.” Screw the letter to Chekhov he mindlessly typed in twenty-five minutes, right?

Phillip would’ve begun readthrough number eight had it not been for the clunky roar of bus No. 51 approaching the stop. NO!!! He was so immersed in the letter that he’d lost track of time, and now his last chance at love was pulling into the stop forty-odd yards away. His legs moved before his thoughts could catch up, carrying him across the street in a blind sprint, heedless of traffic or direction. Half a second and a screeching sound of brakes later, Phillip was lying on the pavement, his hand still clutching the letter. His vision was blurry from the collision… or maybe it was the fact that his glasses had flown off his face at the moment of impact.

That was it - the end of Phillip’s life. He wasn’t injured whatsoever, perhaps slightly shaken from the fall. The driver had managed to break in time. But he might as well have died, because he missed it. He missed the bus. He missed the last writing class. He missed his final chance to talk to Stephanie. To open his heart - possibly for the first time in his life. Yeah, sure, he could probably ask the writing instructor for her info, but… Come on. First off, he’d never gather the courage to ask, and even if he did, she’d never give it to him. It was all over.

These thoughts bludgeoned his brain as he sprawled helplessly on the floor, crumpling up the orange-speckled purple paper in his claw. Tears welled in his eyes and he sobbed, letter clenched in his fist like a death certificate. Stephanie was gone from his life forever…

“Oh my God, are you alright? I’m so sorry!” A blurry image of a strawberry blonde in a purple sweater with orange stripes appeared in his vision. “Phillip?! Is that you? Holy hell! I… I’m so sorry! I can’t believe I almost ran over you of all people,” she continued in a panic, her words blurring into a jittery stream too fast to follow. “Are you alright? Follow my voice. Can you move your legs?! No, wait, don’t move! Don’t move a muscle! I’m calling an ambulance.”

Phillip was already up and dusting himself off before she could dial 911. “I’m f-fine, I’m fine. A little sh-shaken is all. Stephanie?! I can’t really see w-without my glasses.” He didn’t need them, anyway. He’d recognize that voice anywhere.

“Yeah, can you believe it? What are the odds?! I was driving like mad to make it to class, and… Well, let me tell you, mister, I’m not the only crazy one, you dashed across the street like it was life or death!”

It was life or death, Stephanie. It was. If only you knew. “Are you sure you’re not hurt?" He nodded sheepishly. "Hey, what’s that in your hand? Is it today’s assignment?! Let me see!” Phillip instinctively jerked his hand away as she tried to take the letter from him. “Well, I guess I’ll hear you read it for the class, right? We can still make it if we hurry. Come, I’ll give you a ride,” she smiled that big, beautiful smile at him, beaming away any hurt the crash might have caused. She picked up his glasses and handed them to him as he climbed in the passenger seat of the pink Volkswagen Beetle. “Why aren’t you saying anything, are you positive there’s no damage?! Oh my God, I hope I didn’t give you a concussion.”

Phillip couldn’t find the words even if he tried. He just sat there, wrinkled letter in hand, glasses twisted off balance as they rested atop his nose. “You know what, how about we skip class? Let me buy you a cup of tea! Or… A milkshake? Coffee? I’ll even throw a caramel croissant in there.” He still couldn’t bring himself to speak. “I know, I know, that’s not enough to make up for almost killing you. I’ll buy you dinner next time,” she laughed nervously, her knuckles white gripping the steering wheel. Finally, he managed to string a few words together. “I like y-you,” Phillip said, and she turned to look at him. “Uhh… I mean. I’d like you to. Buy me c-coffee. Yes.” Her expression got lighter as she breathed a sigh of relief. “And you’ll let me read that letter, right?”

STEPHANIE

It was the morning of the final writing class. He still hadn’t gathered the nerve to talk to her. It was kind of cute, but mostly frustrating. Why can’t women just go up to their love interest and ask them out? I mean, she could, but what if that scared him away? She’d made every effort to brush up against him, look at him as she read her writing assignments in front of the class - she even named the moose in one of her stories “Anton” after his favorite writer. Still not a single peep from him.

Well, whatever the sages of old might say - some things aren’t best left to chance. Stephanie called the writing instructor and asked for Phillip’s address. They’d agreed to carpool, she said. She knew he lived somewhere along the 51 line as she’d seen him get on the bus after class, but she couldn’t drive the whole distance back and forth until she found the correct stop. That part, Stephanie didn’t say. The old lady happily shared Phillip’s address with her. She then expressed how excited she was to hear both of their letters in class. They were two of her best students, she chimed. Then she hung up the phone.

Stephanie circled the block, driving in the rightmost lane so she could pick him up from the stop when she “accidentally” saw him waiting for the bus there, but he was nowhere to be found. Don’t tell me he’s going to miss the last class?! How am I supposed to ask him out, then? I mean, get him to ask me out? I can’t call the instructor and ask for his number, can I? Okay, this is crazy. I’ve become a rom-com heroine. Or, more realistically, a rom-com villain. Why can’t I just talk to him like a normal person?

These thoughts poked holes in her brain as she drove. Right and right and right again, tracing a perfect square around the block, every pass making her increasingly exasperated. He was either going to be late orrrr that was it. It was all over. She’d slow down as she passed the stop, then slam the gas to make it back in time before the bus could arrive and pick him up. Just as she was about to give up hope, circling the block for the sixth or seventh time, she spotted him. He was sprinting towards the 51 bus that was just pulling into the stop. She couldn’t pick him up, now, he’d definitely get on the bus before he saw her. Would he recognize her, even if he did? She wasn’t quite certain he knew she existed. Stephanie could already see the future unfold. He’d get on the bus, arrive at class with a minute to spare, and then he’d miss every hint known to mankind. Again. And that would be that. She’d never see him again, and they’d never fall in love.

Unless…