Dear Adam,

I'm doing it again. It's getting weirder and weirder writing these letters to you, because I reckon you are probably already home for the holidays. So wouldn't it be easier to come over and talk? Well, the answer is no. Obviously. So, here goes…

Before the beginning of the holidays, I cycled past your place almost every day. I don't really know why. I always looked out for you – although I knew that you couldn't possibly be there, mind. Now that there is a chance that you might be home… I haven't been past your house. I don't really know whether I want to see you.

Because I didn't post my last letter. It's still here. I'm not keeping it in the desk drawer this time, because of the hot spot. Instead I stashed it into my wardrobe. It's a better place, because my clothes give me good vibes. They're kind of like a shield that helps keep my senses together.

Anyway, I decided that I wasn't going to send another letter before I heard back from you. Which hasn't happened. Of course it hasn't – I can't even figure out how I could ever think you might actually write me a letter! I mean, as much as you obviously hate reading, I'm positive that you hate writing even more. Moreover, it would be a pretty gay thing to do. Am I right?

So, the agony continues. And I'm writing again, because it helps. It might not mean much to you, but it does help me. I did manage to keep up a streak of good marks, so my report card is uncommonly good. Now Otis has started to worry a bit, too, I think. What with his own relationship issues to deal with (I doubt you care about the details), he's not been doing all that well himself. Compared to his usual performance, I mean.

For me it's good, I guess. It's good to have one area of my life work out. And there's my family that I've come to appreciate more. They've actually been a source of distraction and comfort as well. Who would have guessed? Ha-ha…

But now that the holidays are here, distracting myself from you has become a greater challenge. I guess I might take up reading, or something. Or helping my parents around the house, redecorate and stuff. I don't know. If I pull through long enough, this thing is bound to go away, isn't it? It's got to. You got over it pretty quickly, it seems… so, that's the goal.

Or maybe, if I do manage to stop by, I might realize that it's over. That it wasn't even ever a thing. We'll see, I suppose.

Until then, take care. Or whatever.

Eric