Seven Hundred Thirty Letters
revised 7/13/2006

Ever since he was a 2nd grader, Steve kept a journal. All the way up until middle school, he used marble composition notebooks - the ones with the spotty dairy cow covers and thick spaces to accommodate a child’s large handwriting. In high school, he upgraded to a Mead Five-Star ring binder notebook with mature “college-ruled” margins. By this time, his handwriting had become a lot slicker and he no longer felt the need to accompany his daily entries with elaborate illustrations as he had done in the marble composition notebooks. When, during the fall of his senior year in high school, he received an 800 on the SAT II Writing test, Steve proudly acknowledged his journal writing as the main reason for the high score. 

What made Steve prouder was the progress he had made since the first grade, when he struggled to recite the alphabet in the trailer classroom where the ESL students of his elementary school went each morning.  More than a decade later, he was still self-conscious of his speech - the Ls and Rs occasionally refused to roll in the tongue - but he was confident that in his relaxed and focused moments, he sounded as natural as any native speaker.  Furthermore, he knew he could write as well, or even better, than most.

College was tough. Steve was a history major, and he was sick of taking notes every single day for all the books he had to read. Steve wasn’t required to take notes, but his obsessively competitive nature compelled him to make sure that he understood and remembered everything he had read. As a junior, Steve was proud of his 4.0 GPA in history.  He specialized in Eastern European history and looked condescendingly on American history, which he felt was “unchallenging and very uninspiring.” Such dedication to his studies meant necessary sacrifices had to be made - besides imposing a no-party rule on Saturday nights to study at the library, Steve allowed his time-honored ritual of journal-writing to fade away. He was tempted to start up a blog since that seemed to be the new craze, but he didn’t believe in electronic journal entries and decided against it. Steve might not have had the time anymore, but he remained a purist when it came to writing for himself.

It was another Saturday night at the library, and Steve squirmed in his chair as he read Russia’s Balkan Entanglements, 1806-1914 in preparation for a midterm paper. He found the book pretty dry and noticed that his notes had advanced no more than a few scribbles. He looked around the large study room. His university library kept its reading rooms open 24 hours a day, seven times a week during the school year, so it wasn’t unheard of to find driven undergraduates studying hard at 2am on a Saturday night. It was only 12AM on this Saturday night, and Steve hadn’t even finished half of his weekend special, a tall Starbucks caramel macchiato. About four tables down, he spotted June poring over her organic chemistry textbook.

June was what Steve considered very pretty. She had pretty almond-shaped eyes, straight shiny-brown shoulder-length hair and a slender frame with hints of athleticism in her gait. While she didn’t have the same coming-to-America-at-age-five experience as he had, she was an American-born Korean whose unmistakably Korean appearance forever linked her to her parents’ motherland. Steve knew June from their involvement in Urban Tutors, a community service organization that paired up college students with underprivileged elementary students for homework help and test prep. Steve gave up after a few sessions because he had been assigned to an unruly 13 year-old boy who loved to curse and believed the only thing Steve could teach him was kung fu.  “Why are you so yellow?” the chocolate-colored boy would ask.  Steve was often tempted to answer with a similar question, but wisely restrained himself.

In the few sessions that he attended, Steve had been introduced to June and knew her basic information - sophomore, pre-med and chemistry major, from Connecticut. He regretted having given up on Urban Tutors so soon, eliminating any future of opportunities to get to know June better, but he had seen her study more and more at the library. He hadn’t said hi to her in a while, so he decided that now - in a relatively empty library reading room on a late Saturday night - was an opportune moment. He put his book down and casually picked up his caramel macchiato while walking towards her.

“Hey June, how’s it going?” he asked.

She looked up, a bit surprised, and took a moment to register Steve’s face in her mind and began scouring for the name. Nothing.

“Oh. Hey,” she said, “I’m so sorry. What was your name again? I think we’ve met before.”

“Oh yeah. We did Urban Tutors together. It’s Steve,” he said. A turbulent mix of regret, embarrassment and shame began brewing at the pit of his stomach.

“Hi Steve! I think I remember now - you had that really loud kid who wanted you to be Bruce Lee, right? Haha, I felt so sorry for you!” she said.

Steve’s outlook brightened. Okay. Not totally forgotten.

“I’m doing okay. Just studying for my orgo midterm. How about yourself?” she asked.

“Oh, just doing some research for a history paper. How long have you been here?”

“About three hours. I think I need to stay a few more to really catch up. Are you gonna stay much longer?”

“Well, I was going to read a few more chapters and maybe attempt an outline of some sort,” Steve replied.

“Hey - you wanna take a study break? I need to get some more coffee,” she said, much to his surprise. “Looks like you already have some Starbucks though.”

“Oh, well, I’ll still go with you if you’d like,” he said.

“Cool, let’s go.”

Steve was grateful that June was outgoing and incredibly nice. A minute ago she hadn’t even remembered his name, and now they were walking side-by-side to the deli across the street. It was too late for Starbucks - they closed at 11pm - so June had to settle for the $1 cup of coffee with milk and sugar stirred by the Korean owner. The two of them hit it off on the way to the deli and back. They talked about their other extra-curricular involvements: June volunteered at the hospital a few times a week and also held a position in student council while Steve was an assistant editor at the business school’s monthly magazine and occasionally attended general meetings held by the Political Union. In their short time together, they became familiar with each others’ social circles - who they partied with on Friday nights, what they planned on doing for Spring Break, how many friends were in long-term relationships, and other such matters. When they came back to the reading room, they went back to their books and worked a few more hours. Steve was the first to give up, and he stopped by to say goodnight to June. He asked her for her Instant Messenger screenname and got it, although she warned him that she barely used it.

“Shoot me an e-mail or something,” she said.

And that was how the seed of infatuation was planted in Steve’s imaginative mind. In no time, Steve entertained dreams of having a girlfriend and all the places he would take her on dates. He replayed in his mind the image of June sipping on her coffee while asking him what he liked to do in his free time - of course, free time was hard to come by and his best answer was - “Oh, you know, watch movies, hang out, and just catch up on sleep...” He wished that he had been more original and interesting, but the answer seemed good enough for her as she agreed that she did the same exact things during her own free moments. They were meant for each other!

She was right. Steve never saw her online and when he did, he never got a response and often waited until her screenname turned into a light gray color on the buddy list, which meant she was idle and probably away from the computer. He sent her an email, but her responses were nonchalant: Hey, how are you? I’m good. Sorry for the late reply, been real busy. Hope everything is well! Catch you later. Bye!! -June.

He saw her from time to time at the library and around campus, but it was never the same. She was with her own friends, and she always seemed so preoccupied and so busy that there was no space in her life for him. Could this be the same girl who had asked him to come to the deli with her at 12AM on a Saturday night? Steve knew he was counting on too much from so minute an experience, but he let his frustrations mount while still holding on to the hope that by continuing to dream about being with her, there would one day be a payoff.  But in the meantime, he needed some sort of release to maintain his sanity.

So he wrote her a letter. It began with a “Dear June.”  The first five letters – D-E-A-R-J - had been so natural to him in his younger days. Dear Journal. Dear Journal. But this was different. Dear June.

He wrote to her, not about how his heart ached to be with her or how he thought about her every waking moment, but about smart and interesting things, like how one of his history professors had served as a historical consultant for a recently released Hollywood blockbuster or how you could get free donuts from the supermarket when you went a quarter to midnight, right before they threw out all the leftovers. He relived the finer points of his day and captured them with a cool, subtle style that skillfully disguised his screaming desire to be understood and liked. He sent it to her through campus mail, which only took a day to deliver. He waited three days to see if she would come up to him and mention the letter.  Maybe even write back or drop a brief email.

Nothing.

He wrote her again, about more things dear and interesting to him. What do you think about the architecture of our dining hall? I find it a bit too claustrophobic and the lack of windows makes ventilation a problem…. The squirrels here are so fearless. I felt like this one squirrel was following me to class today and shadowing my movements. I later held out an apple core and the squirrel came right up to me and took it from my hand. He continued to write. He dated the letter. And he kept it.

He wrote her again. Dear June.

And again. Dear June. Dear June. Dear June.

He saw her around campus from time to time and said hello. She never mentioned the letter. They never exchanged more than a few words thereafter. She was a busy girl. He didn’t stop writing to her. He kept it all in a shoe box, in neatly stacked rows of tri-folded letters. He never missed a day and even wrote during summer vacation, at the office where he interned and on the mountain trail in New Hampshire.  When the first shoebox ran out of space, he bought a pair of running shoes and used the empty box.

Dear June,

I really enjoyed the BBQ that the student council put on for everyone the other day. I heard you did part of the planning. Good job! I think our campus can definitely use some of these community-building events. I liked how you got a bunch of student groups to perform. I really loved that a capella group - forgot their name - but the one that did the Maroon 5 song - that was spectacular! I sometimes wish I had some skill to contribute to the performing arts, but I guess if anything, I can learn to write a play or something. Anyway, I finally got myself a job – I’m going to be a research analyst at Goldman. Not sure how exciting the financial markets may be for a history major, but the pay is solid and I can tell people that I work on Wall Street. Well, hope your MCAT preparation is going well. See you around.

Steve

*****

The fifth shoebox wouldn’t take anymore. Steve paused while looking at the neatly stacked boxes. His midtown apartment was small, but expensive and cozy. The boxes took up extra space. It had been two years since he wrote that first letter to her - the one she never replied to. He had been out of school half a year already and a few months into his job at Goldman. Why had he kept on writing? He wondered if he was mentally stable. Well, I’ve been no good at getting dates or hooking up with girls, he noted. But he didn’t feel depressed or too distracted. He still thought about her from time to time, wondering what she was doing and if she still remembered him, but the pain of infatuation had dulled into a passing disappointment. But for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, Steve had kept on writing the letters. Now they took up space in his $1,500-a-month high-rise apartment.

He looked her school address up online. She was a senior now. UPS Ground Shipping for five shoeboxes worth of letters cost him a little over sixty dollars. He attached a note.

Dear June,

I hope you’re doing well. I wrote you a letter a couple of years ago, and although you never replied, I sort of made it a habit to keep on writing. This might sound weird, but I wrote a lot of letters addressed to you and never sent them. The letters are just harmless musings and observations, so I hope you don’t find all of this too creepy. If anything, think of yourself as the muse who helped me to put my thoughts on paper.  Anyway, I was looking to save some space in the closet of my tiny apartment, and since I don’t really have use for these letters, I thought that maybe you’d like to take a look. I won’t mind if you decide to trash them or whatever. Hope my handwriting isn’t too illegible. Well, good luck with everything and be sure to enjoy your senior year.

Steve.