Bird songs called to him like sirens singing of intoxicating freedoms in the outdoors. However, he attended to the curled edges of his paper, a nervous habit his fingers had picked up, his pen greeting every inch of his hand with mindless fiddling. The afternoon had paused all activities and previous engagements for this letter. 

“My dearest friend,” he began lamenting to ghosts of the present. He wandered around the bedroom, each footstep careful and particular as if he was recalling dances from his youth. “I have thought about writing this letter since— I don’t have a specific moment, do I?” His eyes were drawn to the small, framed photograph on the wall. It was taken after his best friend had completed her painting, a birthday present for her sister. Her hands and clothes looked like pavement in the spring, a thousand different colors from fallen petals shed by blossomed flowers. Her smile mirrored a child’s after receiving a new toy, absolute joy. “I’ve thought about writing this letter for as long as my memory allows. In fact, I struggle to recall a time in my life when you were not beside me.” A gentle knock on the door disrupted his process.

“I made lunch,” his sister leaned against the doorway, “do you want some?”

“No, not yet.” He thanked her as she closed the door, he felt tempted to gnaw on the end of his pen while trying to continue his writing. His fingers walked along the edge of the gray wooden bed frame, they followed the smooth lines until he had an idea. “I struggle to recall a time in my life when you were not beside me. I wish that would never change. I love roaming the gardens with you while collecting flowers and fruits.” The sun reflected off the moving tide of the beach and through his window. “The beach, the sand. If I could have one wish granted, it would be to watch the sunrise on the beach with you every Sunday. Nothing feels more holy than seeing your eyes light up with the rest of the world in the new dawn.” 

Shelves of books observed his oral declarations he had reserved to paper and his mind in previous years. He wrote invisible words in the air as memories broke free of leather bound journals and stormed the castle of undeniable curiosity. Short fingernails traced the journals containing copies of poetry she had written. Her parents were towering and still mountains, but she was like the wind. Free and flying high above the clouds, untouchable. Her poetry was one of the few teathers grounding her to the earth. She had written multiple poems for him, about flowers they stole from trees in their path and seashells burrowed in the sand. He always read a few before bed and his dreams dissected each word, in hopes that there would be a hidden message she wanted to portray.

However, he did not view himself as a writer, no less an analyst of homemade poetry. If he could not make heads nor tails of metaphor filled poetry, how could he write a letter able to contain and successfully carry all the beautiful details of his mind? 

 With the strength of Atlas, he shouldered the admiration of his best friend for years and the feelings he felt came into perspective recently. The realization created a comfortable, one-sided tension between the two of them. Comfortable until he was consumed by the haunting panic that he would have to tell her one day, which promptly caused his stomach to feel like the flutter of leaves falling from the treetops. Or, perhaps, like the heartbeat of a fleet footed rabbit scampering through the fields at the first potential sign of danger. Then his late night poetry reading led his mind to swirl with the power of a whirlpool, overthinking the possible outcomes and her reaction. Her reaction, his thoughts screamed, what would she think? What would she do? With a swift and shaking hand, he read over his words once more.

“This sounds ridiculous. She’d laugh at me,” He thought aloud to himself, slumping back into his seat. “No, she wouldn’t, she’s far too nice. Unless this is so horrendous, she becomes a sharp tongued viper, then she might as well sink her teeth into me. Taint my blood and my heart until I collapse at her feet.” His pen flew across the room in a quick motion of defeat and the curled edges of his paper echoed endless pity. He did not write love poetry. He did not write love letters. Nevertheless, he did feel something in his pure heart and he was overwhelmed with the desire to uproot the normalcy of everyday life to declare his love. He wanted a declaration so grand, that whether she felt the same or not, a cherished memory would be the residual effect for both of them. 

His desk was the permanent home of wilted flowers they collected over time. While some had the luxury of being pressed and taped to the insides of journals, with the occasional company of newspaper clippings and poems. A select collection of leather bound journals were his own private celebration of her and her success over the years. Since birth, he has needed to express the many emotions he’s felt. Otherwise, he is shackled in place by his own mind and cannot continue to move forward. This was no different from the times he expressed his frustrations with his father or his joy with his sister returning from a long trip. Yet at the same time, it felt different. Yelling to the sky and calmly reapproaching his father; buying and making gifts for his sister just so she can share the same happiness he cannot contain, are both vastly different from something as meticulous as expressing romantic love to one’s best friend. Based on his inability to stop fiddling with his paper, it was also more terrifying. 

“I need to do something,” He muttered, “I need to do something. Something big, something graceful, something heartfelt.” He scoured through his trinkets for an idea, flipped page after page in a photo album out of desperation for an idea. His crazed hands stopped as he reflected on a photograph, the two of them at the county fair. She had won a large stuffed dog with her curls thrown over her shoulder and a twinkle of determination in her eyes. During that day, his nerves had never been more at ease around her and the most fun he had in years. “Maybe I should just go over there and tell her. Or I could do something else like bake a cake.”

The noon blue sky effectively beckoned him outside. Gentle threads of grass weaved themselves between his bare feet. Salty ocean breezes relaxed his shoulders and led him to the beach, where the sand guided him along a trail of seashells and flower petals. He kicked a handful of sand into the wind as he thought about his next actions. His feet rhythmically shuffled the grains to a melody that seemed vaguely familiar. 

“I’ll do it. I’m going to tell her. I should put on my shoes first.” He turned around, but a fierce gust of wind countered his decision. “No, you’re right. No more turning back, I need to go forwards.” With the wind on his side, he ran down the shore, picking flowers from fields and trees he encountered. 

As his feet hit the ground, he thought about what he would say. Running on pure adrenaline and living in the spur of the moment, he had no plan in place nor a clue of his word choice. The idea seemed better on paper rather than in execution, but it might as well be now or never, and the dosage of bravery in his blood appeared to be enough. The underside of his feet ached when he arrived at her home. She was sitting at the end of her pier, eyes closed, breathing in the ocean’s breeze that brought him to her beach. He could stand and admire her all day, no matter how much his feet complained.

The stems of the flowers he carried were soft and wilted like the flowers on his desk. Perhaps he should find fresher blossoms nearby, but they would be planned compared to his gifts born of impulse. He had to admit, he liked the thought of his impulse flowers rather than throwing them away for something new. The adrenaline began to wear off and his mind began voicing its opinion of run! Before it’s too late and you make a fool of yourself!

The gust of wind gave him another shove, in order to keep him out of his head, and closer to the pier. Flowers in quivering hand, he carefully stepped onto the dark damp wood. Part of him wished the pier was longer and extended further into the ocean, however, he had to reach the end eventually. When he did, she would be waiting there. Looking up with the curiosity of a cat and excited to see what he brought on this surprise visit. 

As he sat down next to her, his pants soaked up some of the water on the pier and his sand covered feet dipped into the ocean. She gave him a giddy smile as she investigated his gift. With hands gentle as doe, she smelled each individual flower to learn their fragrance before feeling the texture of the petals. Her fingernails were a plethora of colors, most likely from painting. 

“Did you paint today?” He tried to ignore the obnoxious yelling of panic in his head.

“Yes, I painted those pinecones you found the other day.”

“Well, I’m sure it turned out amazing.”

“Of course! I’ve got you to spoil me with a new muse any time I ask!” She joked, twirling the last flower with her thumb and index finger.

Eyes to the waves, they sat in a comfortable silence. He had a general idea of what he wanted to say, but he actually had to say it. Preferably without messing up. The cool, salty wind could only push him so far. He had to take the final step.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” She began. “Are you alright? Maybe it’s just me, but it seems like you have something on your mind.”

“Actually, I do have something I want to tell you.” He picked up a flower and started curling the petal, like the corner of a piece of paper.