Lack of purpose doesn’t just deaden you; it leads to a kind of degeneration.
It’s 3 AM and I’m awake. I tell her I’m sorry, and that I love her, but that I have to go home. Then I drop her hand and walk out the front door. If we didn’t stop now, we’d destroy everything.
My hope is that, from time to time, you can pick up this letter and read it with Grandma, and remind yourself that you were — for one boy, at the very least — the most important thing in the world.
She starts to shake. This is what she can’t make her friends understand: how physical it is. How can she make them know? How do you communicate this? How it’s like walking through a spider web, caught in something that you can’t get out of. She wants so badly to be normal, and good, and happy, to be a successful woman, whatever that actually means. But she’s not any of those things and she knows it.
I am an introvert. I know this about myself. I enjoy being alone. Moreover — as is true of most introverts, I think — I romanticize the idea of being alone. But being alone for any real length of time is romantic only in theory.
This whole failing at dating thing is starting to get to me. I’m beginning to think there’s something wrong with me.