As a child, I would write letters. No, I have never been a romantic, just a rather diplomatic child. I would write letters of negotiation to a friend of mine, burn them, and let the ashes be a legible phoenix to him.

As a child, I grew up writing letters. I stopped believing in the existence of phoenixes. Either that or my friend wasn’t really a fan of one. He was way older than I’d ever be, so I was sure it wasn’t a change of taste. It was rumoured that he preferred the savour of sconces, so I kept burning my letters.

As a child, I wrote letters in desperation. I learnt the fine line between a negotiation and a plea. I pleaded…I pleaded a lot in my letters. Do you think dried tears on paper burn too? I think my friend thought it insufficient. Either that or salt water becomes invincible above the clouds.

As a child, I wrote letters. I wrote lots of letters. I wrote letters to the only one I was sure would write back in some way. I think burning those letters wasn’t such a good idea, it made him unable to read them. Either that or he forgot changing mails was supposed to be a colloquy. He’s my friend, right? He’d have replied if he really did see them…right?

As a child, I did write letters. Then I stopped. Then, then I never wrote them again until I was forced to for grades’ sake. They are the only letters I can say I got replies to. Only difference was, for some reason, each one I wrote came back with the marks of a red pen and a word beneath it all.