Greetings, Wallflowers. Yes, this is technically my first story, but my old account got deleted. So you can trust that I have some previous experience in these types of situations. Now this story is about YOU. Not me, not Charlie (well kind of about Charlie), YOU. I've always had the thought that the "friend" Charlie was writing to was us, so this is the story of YOU, receiving Charlie's letters. So, for the time being, YOU are Celia Dynsman. This might suck, OR, it might rock. You tell me. Enjoy.

I resist waking up. Why? Because it sucks. My eyes are all crusted and you still got a bit of makeup on from the night before and everyone calls me "sunshine" and pisses me off. I guess people will never figure out that I am simply not a morning person. I let out a sigh and sit up, throwing the room into a whirlwind.

My fluffy pink robe and slippers are essential for me to start my day, but no, that stupidly smarter past self thought of putting them at the exact point where I have to get up and put them on. Then, my genius brain comes up with the perfect plan. So, in spite of… myself, I guess, I roll out of bed, literately, and army crawl towards my robe and slippers. I achieve a strong sense of victory once I grab the soft fabric.

"Ha-ha! Take that…me…" yep, it's official, I'm crazy. Oh well, I live alone, in a small apartment just outside of New York City, and I am basically the loneliest person in the universe. My ex-roommate\ best friend moved out after she got married, leaving me with my toaster waffles, online dating sites and gargantuan bills to pay.

Today, I decide, will be different. Today will be fun. So I dash downstairs because I'm suddenly in a happy mood, and grab a pop tart. I decide I won't be late to work today, and I decide that I am not going to stop at the mall after work. I need the cash. Bad. So I change, and put on the special makeup that I got by mixing together multiple colors. This problem wouldn't be there if my eyes were the same colors, but no, blue and green eyes for me. I won't let this daily hindrance ruin my morning though, I have a new client coming in at work today, and I am going to screw with her mind.

So, nibbling on my blueberry pop tart, I make sure all the windows are sealed and locked; grab my keys, my cell and my purse as I walk out the door (being very careful to lock it). My high heels make a clack against the pavement on the way to the subway station. They go down the stairs at the station sideways, because that's how I handle stairs… sideways. I slip my pass into the box next to the turnstile, having flashback/nightmares of the time it didn't pop back out. But no, I push through the turnstile and there it is, on the other side of the box, my shiny ticket awaits me. I snatch it up without stopping. My mind always says that I'm going to be late to catch the subway, but I never am. Today is no exception. I rush, using my waning acting skills to look super stressed, so people think that whatever you are doing is more important than them, and they will make way for me. I'm kind of a genius like that. I step over that small gap between platform and train, avoiding a tragedy every time.

0o0o0o0

I've wanted to be a literary agent/editor since I was fifteen. I've always loved to write, but I have loved to read just a little bit more. It was a dream, a goal, getting a partial essay scholarship to Dartmouth certainly helped. And now I am one of Harper Teen Books top agents at only 27 years old. Known for my crazy methods and creativity, I am never doubted. My name is in at least 70 acknowledgements in books across the globe. Young first time authors wait for months for appointments with me, the one and only Celia Dynsman, literary agent to the stars. Not to mention the all the letters you get from kid authors, begging for their first shot at the published world. I arrive at my mildly air conditioned office. Exhausted, I throw my jacket onto my desk and collapse into my chair. I wheel around your desk then over to my door, next to witch is my intercom, I press the button and, with my face clearly too close to the speaker, say "Martha, when's my client coming?"

"Joyce Arigon will be arriving around 11:45." Martha answers. Its ten thirty right now, I should have enough time to set up your office for my client, but not enough time to go get breakfast. "Martha?" I say to my intercom in a whining voice. "Martha can you be a saint and grab me some lunch, you know the place that serves that thing."

Martha sighs into the intercom "What would you do without me?"

"Is that a yes?" I say with hope creeping into my voice.

"I'll be back with food in twenty."

"Extra Ketchup please!" I yell because you can tell she's about to walk away.

And with that I get to work on my office.

I find some leftover string and tape. I grab the books from my bookshelf and start taping one end of the string to the spines. I remove my shoes, stand up on the plush squishy chair, grab some paperclips and hook them onto the ceiling the way I see most second grade teachers do when they want to hang their students art work. I also take two pieces of smaller string and tie them to the covers of the book, connecting those ends to the string coming out from the spine, making the pages hang out and the covers wide open above them. Finally, I hang the books from the ceiling. I end with a bunch of books, bearing a great resemblance to birds in flight, flying above us. I contemplate rapping my head in tinfoil for that added "crazy" look, but I decide not, I do, after all, want this client.

Martha arrives with my early lunch. She walks in the room, holding the paper bag and my mail.

"Thanks." I say, she sits down at my desk and eats with me. "Martha," she looks up from her food, lettuce in her mouth, but gestures me to go on, "You're looking for an apartment, right?"

"Mhm." She nods and swallows. "I can't stand the dorms anymore." Martha is a lit major right now, who says she just can't live with her roommate.

"Well…" I say with a smile creeping on my face, "my roommate moved out, why don't you come live with me?"
"I'll think about it… oh and here's your mail." She hands me a small stack of letters, the rest is in the junk box in the office. Martha just finds what's good.

After sorting through stuff, I find a letter, addressed specifically to me, with no return address. I raise it up in my hand, sending Martha a puzzling look.

She shrugs, "Looked interesting."

"Well," I say with a sigh after finishing my chicken sandwich, "thank you for lunch, and please, please, please consider my offer of moving in with me." And with that, Martha leaves the room.

After a while, curiosity takes over, and, with fifteen minutes left until my client arrives, I read the anonymous letter.

Dear friend,

I am writing to you because she said you listen and understand…

Okay, that did take a while to get to the POBAW part; I hope I didn't lose too many people in the time being. Hope you loved it. OH and I do not own:

-The Perks of Being a Wallflower

-Harper Teen Books

-Pop Tarts

-A gumdrop eating unicorn/monkey hybrid

Thanks for reading and PLEASE review!

* Nota al margen. He creado una versión en español de la serie, realmente espero que yo no asesiné a la versión española, y hecho más fácil para mis lectores españoles.