I’ve just made myself feel really sad writing this. The girl in the fort is all grown up, reflecting on what that means in a letter to the man she loves.
I look at myself now and wonder what you would think of me. It’s my birthday again. I’m thirty years old.
Back then, when we were young, this really was old. You promised me that if I turned thirty and I was still alone then you’d come to my rescue. And now it’s happened, and I am. But you’re not here.
All the people around me say that I shouldn’t feel old. That thirty is so young, that I still have so much of my life ahead of me. They don’t understand that I stopped living a long time ago.
Not that I don’t have a life. There’s a lot I’ve done that I’m proud of. I have a job – a career even. And a house. And a cat. Don’t laugh – I think you’d like her. She probably wouldn’t like you much, but then she doesn’t really like anyone except me.
So in many ways I’m ticking all the boxes, doing all the things that we used to say people do when they get old. I thought I’d be happier, though. I thought I’d have it all figured out by now.
My friends are all getting married of course. Having kids.
Our son would be fourteen this year. The same age as I was when we first kissed, do you remember?
I hope you’re both happy, wherever you are.
Forever and always.