What The Hell Am I Doing pv

A letter would arrive for Finnegan during mealtime one day. Simply addressed to “Finn”, no address or mark of a sender written on the envelope. The paper was slightly wrinkled, evidence of June writing, removing, and rewriting it more times than she could count. A small childish doodle of a flower stood at the top right of the parchment, drawn in coloured pastels. An attempt to make the letter not so terrifying for both sender and recipient.

Dear Finn,

I’m not very good at things like this.

We haven’t addressed it much but I’ve been thinking about things you said on your birthday and when you were in the hospital wing. A lot. And I still meant what I said about not entirely knowing what to do about those things, or where to go, or what the right step to take is, because it feels like I’m completely in the dark to my own thoughts when this is one thing I am craving clarity for.

But if I can’t reason my way into clarity, I think I need to take a page from your book and start doing.

So, I was wondering if you would like to accompany me to Madame Puddifoot’s on Sunday, November 10th, on a date.

You don’t have to write a letter to answer me back if you don’t want to. This is as much courage as I could muster up.

Yours,
June