/Tiny Love Stories: ‘If You’re Reading This, Nick, I Love You’

Tiny Love Stories: ‘If You’re Reading This, Nick, I Love You’


It’s that point once more. How do I know? Because of that previous string of pink chili pepper lights from Albuquerque. We purchased them greater than 30 years in the past for our first Christmas collectively, but each a type of chilies nonetheless lights up when I plug them in. He’s been gone six years now. Our love died earlier than he did, at the very least formally, in line with the divorce decree. But each Christmas, similar to the pink chili peppers, my coronary heart glows pink and I keep in mind him. — Marla West


She stated she understood why we couldn’t spend Christmas collectively. I despatched her so many “I miss you” texts. “Your parents will come around someday,” she replied. She spent the day alone in our condo, not texting me a lot so I wouldn’t sense her unhappiness. I sensed it anyway. So I stated an early goodbye to my household in Kentucky and drove 7 and a half hours again to Iowa, arriving in time to sleep subsequent to her underneath our string lights. That is when I realized what actually issues on a day like Christmas: being across the individual you like most. — Amanda Hancock


The first Christmas we have been newly courting, and I was certain we’d be head over heels in love quickly. The second Christmas got here throughout our relationship low: I was disillusioned that we had by no means used the “L” phrase. I grew to become obsessive about this “saying ‘I love you’ thing,” measuring our relationship in opposition to its nonexistence, sure I wouldn’t convey him, absent these phrases, to a 3rd Christmas at my dad and mom’ dwelling. But I couldn’t abide by my very own ultimatum. I don’t need to be with out him. If you’re studying this, Nick, I love you. — Tara Wilson


At dwelling over winter break, I open the field of relics from my first relationship. There are sheafs of handwritten notes, handpicked flowers painted gold, Christmas songs and brass trumpets and images of excessive schoolers resplendent in pink and inexperienced polo shirts, standing amongst pretend Christmas timber and cotton-ball snow. I learn by way of love letters signed with hopeful endings, sonnets expressing emotions that we weren’t prepared to specific ourselves. Sitting in my childhood room, I marvel at these treasured recollections flooding again. This, in itself, is a present. — Marissa Young



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