Page 26 of Love Letters to Christmas

This is fun.

Brian

“This is actually…probably…fine,” Amelia whispers to herself while she sits, so princess, in bed, eating her breakfast oatmeal and muffin.

I tried coffee crumble this morning, per the request I ripped out of her yesterday.

All it took was cornering her in the elevator on our way out of work and refusing to move until she told me what type she wanted.

Which was, obviously, a whole delight and a half.

Merrily, I peruse her dresses, selecting a pink one that matches her cheeks when she blushes. As with many of her dresses, tiny flower petals fill the sheer material of the skirt. So, so princess.

Turning, I lay the garment out over her footboard and see myself to the door, twisting on my heel before I exit, so I can bow. “Will there be anything else, my Mail-ia?” Peeking out of the bow, I beam. “Shall I, perhaps, help you brush and set your hair once you’ve finished eating?”

Her eyes cling to the dress at the end of her bed. “Are you…” Fragile breath slips through her lungs. “Are you laying my clothes out for me now?”

“Yes.”

“It seems like we’re accelerating too quickly? Surely getting dressed lies within my own responsibilities?”

“No.”

“But…I’m still not comfortable with being given breakfast, and lunch, and dinner…

? It’s only been one day.” Her lower lip trembles, so she pulls it between her teeth.

“It’s frightening how good you are at this.

I…I just don’t know that it’s creating an environment conducive to improvement…

? This is definitely just cultivating a codependency that will become concerning. ”

“I think it’s far more concerning that I had to literally intercept you while you were trying to sneak a basin outside and wash my car, A-mail-ia.”

Her eyes slant off me. “No. That was…normal. What’s concerning is that you vacuumed under the furniture before I could.”

“The concerning part is the before I could , dear one.”

Pink blossoms in her face.

My arms cross. “I’m washing the walls and baseboards today, too. To deter you. Yet you really think the problem is what I’m doing? I slept with my door open last night, just in case you got any ideas about trying some funny business during the witching hours.”

“I would never risk waking you. Especially not when you work so hard.”

“Mm.” I sigh. “You know what? I’ll give you a reprieve this weekend.”

Hope ignites in her pretty brown eyes.

“You can help me switch the decorations from patriotic to Christmas. We’ll put up the trees.”

“Yes, please.”

I’m actually growing reliant on the desperate way she says please .

There’s a quality of anything for you in her eyes that makes me feel…

special. Wanted. I don’t know. She’s just precious and really knows how to make someone else feel precious, too.

I doubt there’s a single thing I could ask of her—outside letting me take care of her—that she wouldn’t willingly offer in spades.

Honestly.

She really knows how to make a man worry.

I say, “ I’ll vacuum the plastic pine needles that fall off.”

Her lip escapes her teeth to jut, positively princess.

Twirling, I lift a scolding finger. “I’ll hear nothing more of this! You shall help me have fun decorating. Then you shall sit in the cranked-up AC with a hot cocoa while I tidy.”

“You monster,” she whispers at my back.

So I cackle and scurry away to clean before she can discover a single oat out of place in the kitchen.

An Amelia Original. For me. On a letter addressed to me. Finally .

Staring at the transparent wax exploding with drops of deep blue and burdened with splashes of tiny white petals, I know joy. I know love . Wow.

Amelia, you…you really have outdone yourself.

I melt into a smile, grateful that I have a few moments to spend alone with my letter while Amelia is upstairs desperately assisting anyone she can like a frazzled little rabbit. I have been blessed. At last.

Careful as ever, I open the envelope and read.

My dearest Brian,

I hope you like what I’ve managed with the seal this time.

I spent quite a long while researching and practicing to get it just right.

I hope you know that my feelings for you aren’t a joke.

I’m very seriously doing my best to become both someone who deserves you and someone who doesn’t hate herself.

Sincerely, I just hope that person is one in the same.

How do you know when something begins to budge? How will I know when the person I am doesn’t…suck quite so much?

It feels like I’m constantly fighting a self-centered nature that makes me hate everything about who I am.

My immediate defense is to pour all my attention into someone who isn’t me.

I keep myself busy, even if I do it bitterly, just so I don’t feel like a waste of space, just so I can distract myself from the constant uneasy knowledge that I am never going to be good enough.

I’m sorry this letter is darker than my previous missives.

With every correspondence, though, I find myself ever more enamored by you. You’re safe and strong and a picture of who I wish I could be.

You’ve said that you think I’m brave, but when I think of bravery, I think of you. You charge forward, expending so much energy, just to make people happy. You don’t flinch in the face of rejection. You pout, then you pull yourself together, and make another bigger, better plan.

It’s remarkable.

You’re remarkable.

I hope you understand how wonderful I think you are. I keep rereading your letters to find strength and reassurance. They mean so much to me. That you’d be willing to offer your time to a stranger means so much to me.

But, I guess, that’s just who you are. And that’s why I love you.

To answer your question, I don’t know. I don’t know what makes me feel loved.

I’m not sure I’ve ever felt loved before.

I have a best friend. And I know she loves me.

I know it. She’s the only person in my life who has tolerated me for longer than a few weeks at a time.

Yet I am constantly worried that I’m messing up with her.

I am constantly afraid that I’m going to lose her.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not because of her.

She’s amazing. Heaven knows she’s listened to unbelievable amounts of my nonsense without saying a single thing to make me feel like I should shut up.

I know, logically, a person like her wouldn’t waste time on someone she doesn’t like.

I know she’d do anything for me. I know the lengths she’d go.

But, still, I feel like I should shut up. I feel like I’m begging for attention.

I crave a lot of attention, Brian. A lot. It sickens me how insecure I am, how constantly I want reassurance and validation from everyone I interact with.

I want to be more fearless. I want to be less afraid. I want to know who I am.

I want so many things that I hate myself just for the wanting, because I know it’s selfish and greedy to want when I have things so good.

I’m sorry about all of this. This is why I’m not ready to be in a relationship yet. I probably should know how I even want to be loved before I ask to be. I need to know what I even want so I don’t lose the people who want to welcome me.

I wish I could expedite the character development. I wish I could find peace.

I wish it didn’t feel like everything I do is narrated in someone else’s unkind voice.

Despite all of this and how devastatingly unprepared I am, may I return the question in the hope that I will find myself in a future where I will be able to love you? When that time comes, how can I make sure that you know you’re loved?

Struggle-bussing my way through, fr,

Your Secret Admirer

She’s just so…adorable.

It’s physically painful to know that she’s hurting, but I cannot express how dear a woman who sends information about how she hates herself on the same page that she writes struggle-bussing is.

Genuinely—so, so genuinely—I want to keep her and protect her from everything in the entire world. The desire to coddle her until she knows nothing but blissful happiness rivals only my urge to use my good intentions as a means to tease her to no end.

I mean, please. She was smuggling a bucket of warm, soapy water outside last night, and she squeaked when I caught her searching for a car sponge in the garage.

I’m not the angel she thinks I am.

Not by any means.

It is nice to be thought the best of, even to the point of egregious delusion, though.

I suppose I just wish that she understood I think the same of her.

Except, with her, I don’t need delusion at all.

She is an angel, constantly fighting everything she claims is selfish, constantly striving to do better.

She would never torment someone trying to heal from people pleasing and low self-esteem like I am.

In the end, what I’m doing might help, but I’m certainly having more fun with the process than is entirely kind or selfless of me.

All her “selfishness” is nothing more than a desire that her basic human needs be met.

All my selfishness is the brand name, plain and simple, clear-cut, good old regular, home-grown kind.

And, to make matters worse, I’m at peace with that.

Imperfections are human, and I’ve never professed to be anything but, so I look at my desires—which are wants, not needs—recognize that they’re nonessentials, and laugh as I plow ahead to achieve them anyway.

Without guilt.

Without shame.

With nothing but a loose this’ll be fun for everyone involved, probably to guide me.

Setting her letter down, I pluck the envelope off my desk and look at the seal. So pretty. So bubbly. So Amelia .

Heaven knows I don’t have a clue where she got her rose-colored glasses.

But, boy, do they make her eyes look pretty.