Running from Love

Amanda,

I have started this letter about a hundred times.

Okay, maybe not a hundred. But enough that the folds are starting to rip.

You always did make words feel heavier than other people do.

I don’t really know what to say because you have said a lot of true things about me and I hate that. Not because you were mean. Because it’s easier when people are wrong about me.

You said I leave before people leave me first.

I wanted to tell you that isn’t true, but then I tried thinking of all the places I’ve stayed and suddenly I ran out of excuses.

I was always good at running. So maybe you know me better than I know myself.

Your family is the closest I’ve ever felt to a home. I never felt homeless at your house. Not really. Your mom yelling from the kitchen. Hester and Lester fighting. The books everywhere. Even the smell of old paper and crayons and dinner. It felt loud in a good way. Like there was always room for one more person.

That scared me more than sleeping outside ever did.

When you’ve spent enough time alone, kindness starts feeling dangerous. Like if you hold still too long, somebody will finally notice you’re just a regular person and not some legend kids made up.

I think you were the first person who looked at me like Jeffrey instead of Maniac.

I didn’t know what to do with that.

You said people become easier when someone stays long enough to learn them. I think maybe I never learned how to stay. Nobody really taught me. One day my parents were there and then they weren’t and after that everything just kind of felt temporary.

Not you, though.

That’s the problem.

You mattered enough that losing you felt... I don’t know how it felt. But the safety of your family’s love made me feel unsafe.

I know that sounds backwards.

You’d probably roll your eyes and hand me one of your books and tell me that only idiots run away from people who care about them. You’d be right too, which is annoying.

I still remember you reading while walking down the sidewalk because you trusted the world not to crash into you. I remember how you talked to me normal even when everybody else acted like I was some kind of freak in a story.

You saw past my dirty skin and made me feel less invisible.

I don’t know where I belong yet. Maybe nowhere. Maybe everywhere. Maybe I’m still figuring it out.

But when I think about home, I think about your front porch.

That probably means something. I hope one day it will. I’m just not ready for it to be today.

Please forgive me for leaving.

Your friend,

Jeffrey “Maniac” Magee