Unsent

Dear Gregory,

How’s “James Dean” doing? I had a feeling our little stunt would work. I knew the second he saw us kiss, he’d come running back to you (you’re welcome, by the way). It’s kind of sweet how much effort he puts into that rebel-without-a-cause look. From the perfectly cuffed white T-shirt to the way he wears that brooding, cinematic stare like it’s a uniform, it is all so carefully staged.

I listened to your mixtape on the train this morning, demolishing a bag of M&M’s (the yellow bag, obviously). Now they taste like you. Thanks for ruining my favorite snack. All I can think about is that peanut M&M you passed from your mouth to mine right before we kissed on the dance floor. But I suppose I’m still hiding a much deeper truth, one that still lingers like that stubborn mist outside. I really wanted you to kiss me again. A slow, heavy kiss. One that was just for us. (No audience … no ex-boyfriend to win back.) Just two people anchored to the floor while the rest of the world spun away.

I kept playing “Unbelievable” by EMF over and over, laughing at how perfectly it describes you. You are, in a word, unbelievable. For me, that track became our anthem the second you taught me those tight hockey turns at The Roxy, timing our glides to the DJ’s beat. I can still lose myself in it. Your hands on my hips. The strobe lights cutting through the haze. Us floating, entirely real, in a room full of ghosts.

Today, New York is swallowed by a fog so thick it feels like the sky has settled onto the pavement. It has that cinematic weight you love, like a London noir film. The skyscrapers waver, flickering in and out of existence. I love the way this city hides and reveals; it’s so human. Here, I can be anyone. Back home in Jersey, I’ve spent my life practicing how to disappear.

I’m sitting on the marble floor beneath the Great Clock in Grand Central, waiting for Derek. We’re headed to Mamaroneck for a Sicilian slice at Sal’s (all thick, charred crust and the reason people cross county lines). It’s quiet here, just a few travelers dragging their suitcases like weary companions. Above me, the flap board clicks and clacks through its rhythm: Boston, Poughkeepsie, White Plains. The sound is hypnotic… like time breathing.

Have you ever really looked at the ceiling here? It’s a sea-green sky with constellations painted in gold. I only recognize Orion and the Big Dipper. As I trace them in the air, I imagine they’re the freckles running down the back of your neck. You probably never noticed me noticing them. I wonder if they’re fading, the way summer freckles do. I wish you were here, looking up. You’d name every star with that quiet, boyish pride you wear so easily. I’d pretend to listen, but really, I’d just be studying your reflection in the glass of the clock, storing every detail.

But you’re not here. It’s just me on the cold marble, hugging my knees, thinking about you the way people do when they know they shouldn’t, but can’t seem to stop.

Yours,

Rob

Robert A. Cozzi has maintained a daily journaling practice since the ninth grade, a habit sparked by an encouraging teacher. His writing has been featured in several literary journals, including Bending Genres, Reverie, Squid Literary, Remington Review, and Cosmic Daffodil.