QHL-0003: If

1950s British school exercise book with handwritten fountain pen letter on graph paper, evoking queer boarding school secrets.

If I seem peculiar of late, it’s only because I missed you when you were away at Hadrian’s Wall. I’m fully aware that doesn’t entitle me to behave oddly, but I’m blaming you regardless.

I still can’t believe it was Toby, of all people, who managed to fell me during rugger. Concussed, grounded, and thoroughly miserable. Serves me right for trusting him to tackle properly.

I know you said we’re too old for notes, and I realise you didn’t mean to kick me when you turned over the other night, but it did hurt, and I didn’t sleep much afterwards.

You were talking in your sleep again. I caught my name. (Perhaps I dreamt that part.) Nevertheless, it stayed with me.

This afternoon in Latin, you flicked ink at me. I pretended to be affronted. Truthfully, I liked it. Is that a ridiculous thing to admit? I suspect it is.

Do you remember when we carved our initials into that old deskand you said it didn’t mean anything? Well, you smiled like it did.

I keep glancing up when I think you’re not looking, just in case you are.

If you want me to stop, just say. You’re still my best friend, and roommate, even if.

If.

(Do not show this to anyone, and for heaven’s sake don’t eat it. Keep it. Or not. Your call.)

J.

P.S. Nunc scio quid sit amor.