life.in.CARTOON.motion.*

notestomyfutureboyfriend:

I’m awkward and I’m loud, but I’m also very shy. I won’t tell you what I’m actually thinking until I’m fully and completely sure that I can trust you not to tell, when I know that you won’t judge me or leave me. And that won’t be right away, because I’m insecure and I’ve trusted people too easily in the past. I’m sorry that I’ll cry so much and I’m sorry for being so confusing and never really saying what I mean. I’m sorry that I’m not perfect, because you’re certainly worth someone better than silly little me. And I don’t really care what you can or can’t do for me, so long as you do your best and you care only for me. All I ask is that you actually do care and you take a break when you need one. Don’t hide anything from me, because I can’t understand why people try to do things on their own (even though I’ll rarely ever ask you for help with my problems.)

             I can’t promise that I’ll always be what you want or what you need. I hope that’s okay. I’ll try not to be jealous about your best friends, even if they’re girls. I promise I won’t try to change anything but your taste in music and literature, and I think changing that would be alright, because you’re allowed to fix me however you see fit. I know I need it.

            You have to understand that I’m going to throw my entire self into whatever we have, whether it’s for a few years or a couple of hours. I won’t want to let you go, but I will, because I’m afraid that if I don’t, you’ll begin to get annoyed. I promise to hug you every time I see you, and let you tease me and mess around all you’d like so long as you respect my boundaries. I promise to cook you whatever I can (which basically means we’ll be living off of pasta for the rest of our lives. I hope you like spaghetti!), and have at least the table clean when you get home. I’ll try not to be too messy, or too frantic, or too scared. I’ll try my best to be what you love, because I would hate to lose you. I know I would, and I probably haven’t even met you yet.

            I’m a little strange, and I hope you are too. I’ll ask you to do silly things, like learn how to play an instrument with me (even though we’ll both know by then that I’ll give it up after a week), and sleep in a fort made out of blankets and pillows instead of on a bed or a couch. I’ll ask you to sing for me, even if you insist that you can’t, and I’ll say that I love your voice if only because I loveyou, and you’re perfect in my eyes.

            I promise we’ll fight. Sometimes it’ll be over something silly, like who stole the last cookie, (me), and sometimes it’ll be a serious debate, like whether or not it’s acceptable for humans to go into space. (Not that one yet, though; I’m not quite sure where I stand.) You’ll have to meet my friends, if you haven’t already, but don’t be nervous about it; I promise to stand up for you if they say anything. I won’t let you insult them, and I won’t let them insult you. So if you can’t get along, well, you’ll all have to learn how to pretend, because I refuse to give one up for the other. I won’t start an argument with you over your bad habits, because we all have them, and I can only hope that you’ll leave mine alone as well. (I have plenty.)

            I write stories about people like you. I write letters to people like you. I dream about finding you. Maybe you know me and just can’t speak up. Maybe we’ve seen each other in passing. Maybe we haven’t met yet, maybe, maybe, maybe. Please, if you already know me, speak up. A girl could use some hope, you know?
            (I really like necklaces and songs and I want to go somewhere that isn’t here. I don’t like routine and I probably won’t get a job that pays well or requires spending time in one place. I hope you don’t mind travelling too much, sweetheart. I also really like pet names.)
            Maybe one day I’ll be able to give this to you, smiling because somehow I knew you were out there, that you existed and we’d find each other somehow. Maybe we’ll laugh over how silly it is or sigh over how cute I am as a hopelessly romantic fifteen-year old girl. (I turn sixteen in a little under two weeks, thank you, and I have yet to have a boyfriend, so this is very cheesy and based all on assumption. Don’t laugh at me too hard; I’m just trying to give the shy me something to say.)

Love, (because I’m sure I’ll love you one day),

Me

(via floatingamongthestars)