Dear Ellie,

First and foremost, I know you're thinking about it, but please do not throw this letter away. I've spent almost an hour looking at hundreds of different kinds of parchment papers in the bookstore (would you believe there are hundreds of them?), and racked my brain real hard which among them I will choose. Obviously, it was…this. (It came with a scent, I hope you don't mind.)

…and don't even get me started on pens!

In other words, the first part in this letter-writing process has already been a demanding task so I'm quite hoping you'd make it easy for me by continuing to read?

(But of course, crumpling this paper to a ball at this point and then shooting it to the trash bin will always be a choice you are free to take.)

(Not that I'm suggesting you'd do that.)

(So don't listen to me!)

(Please.)

Anyway, seeing that I am already wasting spaces with my pointless and stupid lines (and just in case they weren't any more obvious than they were, they were the phrases or sentences enclosed in parenthesis…yeah, kinda like this one), I should get to the point. After all, I didn't waste a dollar for ten pieces of pretty and fragrant paper only to be filled with dim-witted statements, right? I already have my History notebook for that.

Ah, I'm drifting away from my purpose again…I'm sorry.

Here it goes… I like you, Ellie. A lot. And I know this may be hard to believe—let alone to process—because you've always known me as someone who bullies you. A lot. Which makes sense because how is it possible to like someone you're always trying to hurt?

But while that may be the case between you and me, I never had the pure intention to hurt you. Call me crazy, but that's the truth. Believe it or not, I wasn't as evil as that. Allow me to clarify.

Do you remember in sixth grade when I forced you to eat that chocolate chip cookie I told you were filled with bugs from my younger brother's dead bug collection? I actually baked that (not with bugs though, but with high-quality ingredients) because I read from someone's blog that you like that flavor. I recalled you were so terrified when I demanded for you to eat it in front of me. And then you asked if there were real bugs in there because you swore it didn't taste horrible. I walked away without answering you, because your eyes bore so much sincerity I could have blown my act and kissed you right there.

Or do you remember that time in eighth grade when you got sick, still went to school, and I told everyone how disgusting you were for spreading your virus? But to be honest, I couldn't sleep that night, wondering how you were doing, if you have taken your meds already. I kind of have dreaded that you were absent the following day, so I cut classes, went to the grocery store, bought a bottle of honey, and left it by your door, with a note that said, "take a spoonful until your throat gets better." I remembered from hiding behind the bushes how you smiled after reading that note. It was priceless.

How about sophomore year? Did you remember when I got you in trouble from the pizza joint you were working for, which later caused you to lose that job? I only did that—because I found out that your co-worker, Ian, had a thing for you. I had to get you away from him before he could even lay one affectionate finger on you. Or make your heart skip a beat by his not-that-really-attractive-but-in-fact-hideous smile. Or rouse those butterflies on your stomach merely by his (to be honest, extremely annoying) voice. Because it had to be me first that has got to do that to you, you know. It just had to be me first.

And then there was yesterday, when I blurted out an extremely horrible, lame joke about how ridiculously obese your mother was in front of the whole class during English, not realizing that she was at the hospital at that time, sick. And then you snuck onto the rooftop after, bawling your eyes out.

And I thought that was it. You've never shed tears when I pestered you countless of times before, but when you did and I actually saw it, I have never felt more disgusted of myself.

Apologizing wouldn't even compensate for all the damages I've put you through, but trust me that when I say I am so sorry for every little cruel, inhumane thing I've done to you—it is true, desperate, and most of all, it came from the heart.

I never enjoyed hurting you, I swear. And you never deserved any of those. I probably just couldn't deal with the fact that I would like someone as perfect as you. Because I never believed in perfection. Who on this fucking Earth is perfect anyway? Everyone has their flaws. I have many of them. But it's okay because that's how the world works. But you…you're not from this universe, are you? You came straight from the hands of the gods and goddesses and made you so damn beautiful not just outside, but as well as inside.

I guess, overall, what I'm trying to say here, aside from apologizing, is that while I have completely believed that perfection and untainted beauty did not exist, there you came with your books in your arms, walking along the hallway with the most gorgeous, heartwarming, literally stunning and Earth-shattering smile I've ever seen in my entire life—which as I remembered that day, I realize how massively stupid and despicable I was. Because instead of just walking up and talking to you nicely as what any normal, sane guy would do, I totally did the opposite. I tried to stir you up, provoke you…tried to make you a reflection of who I was. Because maybe, if I even find one—just one—small glitch from you, then I could get to finally deserve you.

I didn't find just one tiny glitch. I found lots of them. But they didn't come from you. They were all from me.

Which is why I am hoping—knees down, hands clutched to my chest, and a pair of irresistibly adorable puppy eyes—you'd open that one tiny window of a chance for me so that I could make up for everything I said and did to hurt you, rock your world the way you silently and unconsciously did mine. And I promise I will never waste it. I promise to only treat you the way I should have had.

Because I can.

Damn sure I can.

Begging,
Sam