By Hannah Lee.
If you could see how many times I’d written and rewritten this same letter, I’m sure you’d call me a pathetic, indecisive “poohead” (as you’ve become accustomed to calling me).
I’m sure you’d also ask me why I don’t put the same sort of drafting and re-drafting skills to my essays, which – in my opinion – have always been unfairly judged by the whackjobs who teach at this proud institution we call “university”/waste of money. I can’t wait to graduate next year and never come back. Although, knowing my luck, I will probably end up resorting to a teaching degree and be cursed to teach here forever. The irony of it would make me hang myself.
You’re lucky you get to escape this place as a fancy transfer student. But don’t you start thinking for a second that I’m jealous. Who would want to go to Paris when you’ve got the dry, barren land of Australia stretching out before you? I for one wouldn’t dream of leaving.
As you know, I’m no good at goodbyes. I avoid them when I can, and if I have to do it, they come out as weird adolescent grunts or bashful kicks of dust. My parents used to give me all kinds of shit as a kid when I refused to say goodbye to people e.g. relatives, friends, even my super hot babysitter. They thought I was being rude, but I just felt super awkward because I didn’t know what to say. As in, I didn’t know how to say a “good” goodbye.
I bet you a million dollars you’re thinking about my exes right now. Jessica, crazy Anna, Laura, and Bonnie. You’ve seen me say goodbye to every one of them, and naturally, they’ve never stayed in contact with me because of the quality of my goodbyes. But you’ve seen it all, heard it all, and I’m sure you’re psychological profile of me as a commitment-phobe with narcissistic personality disorder sort of plays into that.
You have to admit, I’m great at hellos though. Remember when we first met at that dress up party? I was Sigmund Freud, and you were a lobster. I wish we had taken a photo of that.
When you find this letter, I really hope you’re in Paris, settling in. In fact, the later you find it the better. That’s kind of why I hid it deep in your luggage. When you were staying at my place, and you were doing last minute checks around the house for things you might have forgotten, I was sneakily shoving this letter deep into the layers of shirts, socks, and underthings (excuse me) that made up your fat bag. Ps. You left your toothbrush behind.
I’m hoping that if you read the letter a bit later on in your journey, you’ll think of me despite the distance, and it’ll remind you to fucking call or write once in a while. Please.
Goodbye, Ava. I don’t know when I will next see you, but if you decide Paris is the place to be, and you don’t return to the good land of Australia, I want you to know that I will miss you. And I want to hear from you. I love you.
Michael “Poohead” Fraser