A letter from Nov 09, 2025

My dear friend, My laptop says it’s 14:35, but time is actually 23:00. I am tucked underneath my navy comforter, two feet and back-of-head making a three-point hold against my bed. It is cold ******* day is Lawrence, Kansas. But for the first time in many months, I felt an enduring glimmer of hope. History tells me that this spontaneous piece will result in tears. It’s difficult to pick a starting point. Shall I talk about the extent of my most immediate despair: how I’ve longed to see your face; to feel your warmth again; to be able to wake up and see you at the day’s break. Or shall I talk about the hopes we once shared that I’ve buried. Do the stars still smile when they see your face? It’s that time of the year again. November. When, for the past few hours, I’ve made my yearly pledge to start anew, to chase epiphanies, and to become. This year’s different. (And, if you’ve read my letterbox, you know I say that often.) This next year – tomorrow even– I just want to be happy. I want to call you whenever our heart settle and our minds beckon the other. I want to read your kind, most passionate words. I want to love the small corners of the world with you. I want to laugh and cry about your quirks, notice your sighs, when your breathing changes, and cherish the moment. I want to hear and read about the mundane things – who or what is the latest lover, which insect woke you up at night, what you ate in the morning, what you’re reading soon. With so much love, Yours in arms, Gingerly JA Nov. 8th, 2025