a lot of things are only yours, America.
Favorite Books: T h e S e l e c t i o n by Kiera Cass
“He stood and went to read my pin as I approached. “America, is it?” he said, a smile playing on his lips.”
“Yes, it is. And I know I’ve heard your name before, but could you remind me?”
It’s been seven hours since you left. Twice now I’ve started to go to your room to ask how you liked your presents and then remembered you weren’t here. I’ve gotten so used to you, it’s strange that you aren’t around, drifting down the halls. I’ve nearly called a few times, but I don’t want to seem possessive. I don’t want you to feel like I’m a cage to you. I remember how you said the palace was just that the first night you came here. I think, over time, you’ve felt freer, and I’d hate to ruin that freedom. I’m going to have to distract myself until you come back.
I decided to sit and write to you, hoping maybe it would feel like I was talking to you. It sort of does. I can imagine you sitting here, smiling at my idea, maybe shaking your head at me as if to say I’m being silly. You do that sometimes, did you know? I like that expression on you. You’re the only person who wears it in a way that doesn’t come across like you think I’m completely hopeless. You smile at my idiosyncrasies, accept that they exist, and continue to be my friend. And, in seven short hours, I’ve started to miss that.
This letter has gotten foolish, and I think you know I detest looking like a fool. But I still do. For you.