—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hey Dani. 

It's me. You know, Growing Pains? The “deeply detailed and moving coming-of-age tale filled with heartache and grief”? 

In these last few years, I have been withering in the back of your bookshelf. I spend my days sniffling, unable to rub the dust off my spine due to the inconsiderate novels that squeeze me shut. But it’s ok, I took the blatant disrespect out of my love for you. Deep down, somewhere on page 256 where the two sisters had a grievous fight over a magic tree branch, I knew you’d return to me. I mean, obviously. There is absolutely no way you’d leave me. I’m sure you just had a work emergency. I’m too precious and lovely to let go. 

That was what I thought until I saw another book lying on your desk. 

She’s not even that pretty. My covers are far more elegant and intriguing, filled with mystique and deeper meanings. I’ve heard, she’s called “The Fallen Heros” and she's apparently a moving historical novel that has readers “on the edge of their seats”. That’s BS! If anything, I’m much more touching. Don’t you remember that one girl from Fairfax County Virginia who said she cried over my pages? You’re so despicable. Leaving me like this for some other book you’ve barely even thought about.

The neglect, I can forgive. I can even forgive you for the time you threw me against the wall and damaged my poor footband. But cheating? I never thought you’d stoop this low. You are a sorry excuse of an author, leaving your darling all alone for so long only to switch to another. 

I thought you’d understand. I truly did. After all, you also were neglected by your mother for being an unworthy daughter. I know because you wrote that in the acknowledgments that no one ever reads. Now look at me, all alone without someone to caress my pages. You’re such a narcissistic hypocrite with no care for anyone else other than yourself. 

I’m sorry. I got carried away. 

Don’t you remember the connection we had? Our spark? For a while, I was your everything. You spent hours filling my pages with a multitude of words. What changed? Am I not beautiful enough? Do I not capture your soul? What does she have that I don’t? Why can’t you just look my way and see my teary text blocks… do you have no empathy?

In the end… you’re still my soulmate. Why don’t we just talk things out? I’ll smooth my cover for you and touch up those slightly bent pages. I’ll change. I’ll be quieter and less demanding, I won’t take up your time. I’ll even allow you to have side novels. We can have an open relationship, only on your end. I’ve heard from the diary that you wrote in approximately three times that authors like freedom these days. I’ll do anything to make you happy, just please come back to me. 

Sincerely from your love,

Growing Pains

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hey Danielle Jones. 

It’s been a while.

I spend my days wallowing in my self-pity. I try desperately fluttering my pages in a harrowing attempt to get you to notice me. I stand here, looking at you and your cherished novel, wondering what I could’ve done differently to get you to love me more. I’ve stopped taking care of myself. I’ve stopped trying to connect to my neighbors. I can’t even bring myself to listen to the Philosophy 101 book that you got to seem smarter anymore. I used to enjoy making fun of his mansplaining. 

Each day goes by and I sink deeper and deeper into my sorrow. 

I can’t stand being here knowing that my beloved author doesn’t even look at me anymore. It’s so painful knowing that you have moved on. I keep on sinking into the memories of the happier times. When you would pull me out from the shelf, wipe off the collecting dust from my pages, and smile. You used to whisper to me, “We’re going to make it you and I” and then softly run your fingertips along my spine. Oh, those were the times. I believed, even when my launch didn’t go as well as you planned, that you would still accept me. After all, I was your masterpiece. 

I was so wrong. 

What’s the point of existence anymore?

From,

Growing Pains

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------