Sounds crazy i know it was just a thing i used to

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sounds crazy, I know, it was just a thing I used to do—when I liked a boy, I’d write the letter and then I’d hide it away in my hatbox. The letters were just for me. But then my little sister Kitty—remember her? Scrawny and willful?— sent them all out back in September, including yours. I do remember that break-dancing contest. I think Peter won. He would’ve taken the biggest piece of peanut brittle either way, though! This is random but do you remember how he used to always take the last piece of pizza? So annoying. Do you remember how he and Trevor got into a fight over it and they ended up dropping the pizza and nobody got to have it? Do you remember how all of us went to your house to say good-bye when you moved? I made a chocolate cake with chocolate peanut butter frosting, and I brought a knife but your forks and plates were all packed up, so we ate it on the front porch with our hands. When I got home, I realized that the
corners of my mouth were stained brown from the chocolate. I was so embarrassed. It feels like such a long time ago. I’m not in Model UN but I was there that day and I did see you. Actually, I had a feeling you might be there because I remembered how into Model UN you were in middle school. I’m sorry I didn’t stick around so we could catch up. I think I was just startled because it had been so long. You looked the same to me too. Much taller, though. I have a favor to ask—would you mind sending me back my letter? The other ones have found their way back to me, and though I’m sure it will be excruciating, I’d really like to know what I said. Your friend, Lara Jean
29 IT’S LATE, AND ALL THE lights are off at my house. Daddy’s at the hospital; Kitty’s at a sleepover. I can tell Peter wants to come inside, but my dad will be home soon and he might be freaked out if he gets home and it’s just the two of us alone in the house so late. Daddy hasn’t said anything in so many words, but since the video, something shifted just the tiniest fraction. Now when I go out with Peter, Daddy oh-so-casually asks what time I’ll be home, where we’ll be. He never used to ask those kinds of questions, though I suppose he never had much reason to before. I look over at Peter, who has turned off the ignition. Suddenly I say, “Why don’t we go up to Carolyn Pearce’s old tree house?” Readily, he agrees. “Let’s do it.” It’s dark outside; I’ve never been up here in such darkness. There was always a light on from the Pearces’ kitchen or garage or from our house. Peter climbs up first and then shines his phone flashlight down on me as I make my way up. He marvels at how, inside, nothing’s changed. It’s just like we left it. Kitty never had much interest in coming up here. It’s just been sort of abandoned since we stopped using it in eighth grade. “We” was the neighborhood kids my age: Genevieve, Allie Feldman, sometimes Chris, sometimes the boys —Peter, John Ambrose McClaren, Trevor. It was just a private place; we weren’t doing anything bad like smoke or drink. We’d sit up there and talk.

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