by Jasleena Grewal


As a hypersensitive Pisces, I have my crazy emotional spells from time to time. But, when I consult the astrological rules of the universe via a trusty Google search, I realize that your charming social tendencies as a Libra conflict with my need for quiet intimacy. There is no denying the accuracy of our stars when I think about how terrified I was sitting in your basement with your deadbeat bohemian friends, blazed and sexed-up out of their minds, watching deadbeat bohemian comedies that I never found funny. I wonder why we never went on a proper date. Don’t Libras romance their partners with dinner and wine? The Pisces in me became desperate. I’m sorry that my parents walked in on us that time when I secretly invited you over to watch cheesy Indian soap operas with me. I thought we were having our first real date, until they crashed it.

Maybe always missing the birdie in fifth period was cute. Maybe it was endearing how I always remained in the lowest ranked court, no matter how much I tried to improve my hand-eye coordination. Endearing, how you purposely lost your matches to hang out at the bottom. Top-court jester wooing the peasant princess. I power trip when I remember that your tiny ex-girlfriend said my hips were “so big!” during swim practice; but, once upon a time, you chose mine over hers. And you supported my wildly boring and uncool dream of becoming a botanist. Beast gifted Belle a giant library; and you would lead me to the glass doors of a giant greenhouse.

Rankled with indecision to send the letters I’ve written, torn-up, and twisted, I scour Yahoo Answers to find that you should never write closure letters to your ex. “Ex” defined loosely, because we were never in a relationship. Rather, you were the first boy who took a committed chance on me. You stood up for me when your friends scoffed at the shy brown girl who stumbled into your circle of progressive hipster geniuses. When my self-loathing was at its peak during embarrassing teenage years, you let me know that I wasn’t as lame as I thought I was. It was like wearing a secret, sacred amulet that empowered me to survive the school days and hallways. If people knew about us, hysteria would’ve ensued. But, we flew under social hierarchy’s radar. For a cute and popular hipster geek, you were really nice to me. Except for the time you called me Sasquatch. Size 8 is the most common shoe size that women wear, FYI.

Signed, stowed, not delivered,

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