The meeting went well, but it was a bit uneventful for my taste. Not that my life was very eventful to begin with but the hope of something at least mildly out of the ordinary quickly diminished the further I got into the ‘get together’ with my so called friends.
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There was, though, a small part of the day when I was introduced to a guy named Elliot. He was tall and lanky with hair that was died a midnight blue. In normal circumstances I probably wouldn't have talked to him, but I wasn't in normal circumstances. I usually wouldn't have been talking to anyone.
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Elliot was nice, and actually got a few smiles and a laugh out of me, which was more than anyone else got. In the end I found myself sitting alone with him and talking about books and hobbies, separate from the group. I went home, about three hours after I came. All in all it wasn't too bad.
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When I came home my aunt asked some questions, to which I answered without much enthusiasm. When she was done, I went to my room and picked up a book that I had started a few days ago, but hadn't had the time to finish yet. I only had a few pages left. So I finished it in only a few minutes.
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The ending of the book brought tears to my eyes, and I didn't bother trying to stop them. In my opinion, not allowing your self to cry, was stupid. If your mind and body was telling you that the correct response at the time was to cry, then cry you should. Obviously I believe the same thing for all emotions and actions that follow them, but crying to me seems like the most familiar. I tired to sort out my emotions, and my opinion of the book, but it was getting very difficult because, as much as I liked the characters, the story it's self, didn't quite fit together in the end.
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I decided that I would write another letter, because the only person that would truly understand my feelings then, was the character I was feeling them for. And so I started write.
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Dear Margo,
I understand why you wanted to leave your home town and your parents behind you, but I don't think you know quite how lucky you are to have them. Mine were taken from me, so I suppose my statement might be a little biased, but I truly believe they tried hard to take care of you, and care for you. Parents, are really just people. And every person has their faults. People can argue that they don't have faults or that they can't see them, but in truth everyone can see their own faults. So, it is only logical that when you have a kid, you try and fix every fault you see in yourself, through your child. I'm sure that's what your parents were trying to do and I'm sorry it didn't quite work the way they hoped, but you're their child, and I'm sure they still love you Margo. I'm a girl too, so I understand that feelings are easily hurt, and sometimes it's easier to turn sadness into anger or happiness into excitement, but most of the time it's better not to. I know this letter didn't make much sense, I'm really sorry, but my mind isn't making much sense right now either. Life is hard, and I can only hope it'll get better, just like I'm sure yours would have if the book had more pages. Live on in the hearts and minds of people who read your life, and stay yourself.
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I scribbled on a random address on a envelope and stuck on a stamp. I ran down to the mail box and sent the never to be read letter to Margo.
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When I got home I felt so tired from crying and meeting my friends, that I slumped on my bed and fell asleep.
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The next few weeks went by and not much happened. I started talking to people at school, and I was surprised to see them actually answer me, and carry out the conversation. To be honest I thought I'd lost that ability. Things in my life were starting to change, I just didn't know if it was a good thing or not.
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One day when I came home from school, my aunt told me I had received a
Letter. I was so lost. This was the first time I had ever been on the receiving end of a letter, but then again, nobody ever was with my letters. I tore open the envelope, with much care, trying not to rip its contents. I took out a piece of lined paper and began to read.
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Salutations mystery writer,
I would just like to inform you that I am not Margo, but I do know of her. I wish I could say we are close, but sadly I don't think she would ever waste her time on someone as normal as me. Not to mention, I have no idea how to contact her. I can see that you tried, but clearly that didn't turn out well, since I received the letter, and as I have already pointed out, I am not Margo. I'm not sure if you were expecting a response to your letter but I wrote one so.... Ha. If you would be so kind as to send me letter in return I would be most grateful. Yours truly,
Still Not Margo.
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I reread the letter at least five times before I finally set down on my table, and that's where it stayed for the next two weeks. I thought about writing back everyday, but I didn't know if it was safe. Sure the letter seemed fine, and the person behind the pen certainly didn't seem harmful, but isn't that how these things usually started? Nobody ever goes into this kind of thing with the thoughts, I think this guy is a stalker and wants to kill me. I’ll write back and tell him all of my personal information.
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Eventually, I was so caught up in thinking about that letter, that I asked my aunt for advice. She told me that if I really wanted to, I could write back and nothing too bad could happen, as long as I didn't give away too much information. Theoretically they already had my address, the most valuable piece of information. That night I began to write the letter, not even thinking that it may have a bigger impact on my life
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