I scroll back up to read it again, and again, until I’ve memorized every word. I imagine that somewhere some fourteen-year-old version of me is lying in bed staring wistfully up at the ceiling. All the “cool kids” are probably out necking in the parking lot after a football game. But she’s at home dreaming of the day her own version of a Danny Prescott sends her a love letter like the one that’s just appeared out of the ether and into my inbox.
