Page 8 of Love Letters to Christmas

Not nothing, but certainly not something either.

Amelia

It means nothing. Nothing . Brian likes everyone. That’s—like—a thing . It’s in his personality. He likes everyone. Because everyone , at one point or another, sends and receives mail.

And he loves mail.

Which means he should know what different colored wax seals stand for!

And he should know that blue wax is reserved for letters of passion .

Furthermore, this is a deep azure . The blueier the blue, the feelingier the feelings.

Chewing my lip, I pace in my bedroom, wondering how in the world I survived the entire trip back from the ren faire without blurting anything inane like I love you or do you know what very-blue blue wax means?

I’m being silly. Terribly silly. The letters we passed out had green and pink and red wax. Just an array of colors. Did I see any other blues? No. Was I looking for them, though?

Haha.

Yes.

If there had been a single other blue that I’d seen, I would have oh-so-casually said, “I think I’ll go deliver this one to that person over behind that building,” and then I would have hidden it in the frills of my skirt to hoard at home.

This means nothing.

Unless…it means something?

But it couldn’t. It wouldn’t. It doesn’t .

You don’t say I like you under a tree coated in fairy glow during a sunset and not kiss the person you’re talking to if you mean like-like . That’s a rule. I’m positive. Completely positive.

A swallow sticks in my throat as I settle myself onto the corner of my bed and stare.

I don’t want to break the wax. It’s a plain seal, strictly one color, nothing like the ones I put together with flecks of fake gold dust, flower petals, or gems. The motif is an elegant, if simple, rose.

I love it.

I deeply, deeply love it.

And I will not be breaking it.

I would rather die than break this.

I would also rather die than rip the envelope open.

My hands need to stop shaking if I’m going to manage reaching my letter without hurting any part of it.

Carefully, I ease the adhesive apart, exhaling damp breath along the seam until it comes undone. Saving the entire seal on my desk beside my own organized collection of stamps and colors, I return to my bed and stare at the open envelope.

“It means nothing,” I whisper to emotionally prepare myself, then I slip the faded paper free, unfold it twice, and read…

Dear A-mail-ia,

Forgive the shade of passion upon the flap of this letter’s warm embrace. I know the code of seals; it’s such a beautiful part of mail’s history. From the days of Benjamin Franklin to the present electronic mail, nothing quite compares to a weathered envelope in the firelight as wax melts.

My reason for shirking such an honorable and important symbolism is really on the insipid side of logic. I’d be ashamed of myself if this letter’s recipient were not you.

You see, plainly, I have noticed that you gravitate toward blue shades, and I know you’ve an impressive collection of wax seals and colors already. I merely wanted you to have a favored hue since I know you—like me—are one to save memories like this down to the final piece.

Heh. Look at me. Writing you a letter, and spending half the page explaining that I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable.

This isn’t what I wanted to say, but maybe I’m stalling because I’m not quite sure how to put it all into words.

Allow me to try, at least, before I’m out of paper.

I’m glad you’re here, A-mail-ia.

I have missed you, dearly.

Working with you in the mailroom and at the office is a unique joy. You are like sunlight upon still water, a glass sparkle that’s nearly impossible to look at it’s so beautiful. Your soul and spirit, however tortured by life’s disrespectful whim, remain angelic.

I see the care you put into everything and everyone. Even me.

And I need you to know I am grateful.

Mail brings joy.

Nothing can quite compare to the simple joys of receiving a letter or opening a package. It brings people together. It crosses distance with physical displays of affection. It provides something to hold, something to catch tears, something to draw to an aching chest as emotions swell.

Mail is beautiful.

And when I’m near you, I see similar beauty.

Thank you for coming into my life again,

Brian

A tear traces down my cheek, and I gasp just in time to pull my precious letter away from it. The moisture soaks into my skirt while I watch, sniffling in an effort to contain myself.

I was wrong.

This does not mean nothing . It means so much. It just doesn’t, quite, mean love. But, in some ways, it does.

Only Brian could look at a near-perfect stranger from his childhood and make them feel as though they are doing him the honor with their presence in his home. Only Brian.

After a day as wonderful as today, I think it’s time I really make a point of being grateful . Brian says I can stay here, near him, for as long as I need. He wouldn’t make an offer like that lightly. He wouldn’t lie. He enjoys my company.

And that will have to be enough for me.

It is enough for me.

If these conflicted emotions prove anything, I am not ready for a relationship like the one I’m craving.

Being loved romantically isn’t going to heal the deep-seated anxiety I feel while I’m surrounded by nothing but peace—because being loved like that should be peaceful.

A relationship is not going to fill the spaces in my chest that still don’t believe I’m safe.

It won’t stop me from apologizing. It won’t keep me from jumping at every loud noise. It won’t make me any less nervous to be seen doing nothing.

For now, I heal.

So that, later, I can really, truly love . Without fear. Without boundary. As wide and deep as a navy sky.