Months passed and we collected dozens of letters from each other. I would keep mine in an enormous Manilla envelope on my desk and she would put hers in a box under her bed. I would tell all my friends about the relationship. Half would tell me to cut the bullshit and ask her out and half would tell me that it was the most romantic thing they’d ever heard. As the letters progressed, the content grew steadily more intimate. The idea of being together was a common theme on paper, regardless of its lack of mention in real life. 

One day I decided to write her a letter asking her to be my girlfriend. I’m really not good at a lot of things. But I can write and I can treat a woman right, so in my mind a letter showcasing both of those skills was a sure winner. I was certain she’d say yes. I sent the letter without hesitation. We didn’t talk for a few days and, when I was sure she had gotten it, I texted her and asked her what she thought. There was a long pause and she finally responded:

“I can’t. Please don’t hate me, but I can’t.” 

My heart sank and my face burned red. I was devastated and turned my phone off for the rest of the day. Eventually she went on to explain that formal relationships never work out for her and the idea of ruining our friendship would make her miserable. I didn’t take it well. I never really do. 

We stopped talking for a long time. Months went by without any letters and I allowed myself to forget about her stationary, her penmanship, the way she signed her name. I let her disappear. Every so often I would go over her letters and long for her. I knew I had made more out of her letters than she intended. I started reading more deeply into what I assumed I had already read deeply into. Maybe she was just mirroring my words, maybe it was more of entertainment for her. A sort of role-playing game. Jesus, I was her version of Dungeons & Dragons. 

Then one day I was in Canada and I bought her a postcard. I bought a bottle of cheap and strong Canadian beer and wrote to her. I told her I was sorry about everything that had happened, I told her that I took everything too seriously and that I missed having a pen pal. I poured my heart out and and told that if she ever decided she wanted to be with me, I would be there. It was a lot of information to fit on the constricting size of a postcard. I stamped it, put it in my back pocket, and walked to the mailbox down the street. As I reached to mail it, I felt nothing. The postcard was gone, it had fallen out on my back pocket during the walk to the mailbox. 

I decided to let it go. The gods of poetic justice intervened and took my letter before it could have fallen into her hands. I was satisfied with this fate until a few weeks later when I saw a pink envelope in my mailbox. Inside was a letter with a picture of a dinosaur, similar to that first one I’d drawn months earlier. Below were three words:

Fuck it, I thought. This was never about romance or relationships. It was about intimacy. The kind of (sadly platonic) intimacy that the written word provides. The relationship with my pen pal united two of my passions: writing and women. I’d find myself upset over the fact that I was never wanted as badly as I wanted her,  but it was about something more. Leafing through her letters always put a smile on my face. She spent the time picking out stationery, writing in cursive, sealing the envelope, writing my address, and stamping the letter. Inside each letter was a world of attention and care that she couldn't bring me in person, not even ten miles away.

We’re still pen pals. I still always open my mailbox hoping to receive that letter that says, “Take me, let’s date, I want you.” But it’s likely never to happen and I’m okay with that —I still have my envelopes, her silly drawings, these things of permanence that I can sit with. I don’t really know who or what I fell in love with whether the person portrayed on paper was her, my version of her, or a combination of the two. It was real, though. It still is.