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sierrab Sierra B Sierra and Aiden aren't always meant to be. Sometimes they've known each other forever; some others they've just met. Sierra has anxiety issues and used to be prone to panic attacks. Aiden is a sensible guy who likes to hide that fact and is addicted to video games. Together, they go through everyday life in parallel universes, where different versions of themselves exist. Which one is your favorite? 0 reseñas

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The care package, part 2

Dear Sierra,

I love you.

I’ve always wanted to start a letter like that. I miss saying that in person. Your eyes twinkle a little when you hear it and you half-smile dreamily.

I love you, See. That’s the best care package I will ever receive. It arrived a little bumped on the sides from the postbox but otherwise okay. I read your letter last, which was a shame. I took everything out and stared at it lying on my bed. I wondered why did I ever do to deserve you. I didn’t cry, though I know you would’ve been thrilled if I did.

I already read the book twice (I will read it many, many times more). I can hear you laughing and gasping and sighing in my brain, I can even feel you underneath my head as I lay on my side, pretending you’re here. It’s still not the same. I miss you.

God, Sierra I really miss you. Sometimes you’re the only thing that keeps me going. I convince myself that the faster I go through the day the faster I’ll get to see you again. I lie to myself.

I’ve also written a bit. Some poems. I want to show them to you but I’m afraid you’ll think they’re too much. Too cheesy (I’m a big chunk of mozzarella, you’re right). I’ll save them for when I see you again.

But let’s get down to business (to defeat the Huns) (you totally screamed like the soldiers).

I want to send you some scones because they are heavenly good and I need you to try them. I try to eat less otherwise you’ll have a fat boyfriend and neither of us wants that. Unfortunately, I can’t mail them for they will rot on their way, so I’m sending you a picture of me eating a scone with your name written in Nutella. Don’t ever show it to anybody (especially Charlotte. Promise me).

I’m also sending you a book. I bought it here and I’m 80% sure you haven’t read it yet. It’s amazing, its a murder mystery. I stole your idea and wrote down what I thought during my reading process (please don’t kill me for using ink). If you already read it you’ll pretend you haven’t and just read it again.

I’m sending you some silver earrings for your piercings. They are small but cute and I really liked them (I liked how I imagined they’ll look on you). Text me a picture when you wear them, please. I hope you like them.

I’m also sending you flowers (look for them before reading on). Did you like them? I wanted to send real ones, then I thought of plastic ones, but hey, postcards of London flowers were a better idea right? Kinda made me feel like the bloke in the Age of Adeline.

The jam in the package is delicious. I figured it would safely arrive at your hands and I really hope it did. It’s orange-flavored and it's my favorite thing to eat with scones. Please try it and tell me what you think.

I wore the hoodie I’m mailing a whole week. It was a bloody cold week and I almost never took it off. You are weird.

I gotta say, this letter writing thing is really something. I feel like a hopeless romantic writing to you. Thinking of your face when you get this. Texting is a blessing but writing letters is poetic. I’ll try to write more often. How cool would it be to collect them all in a box and read them in a few years, drinking coffee? I would love that deeply.

I hope this letter makes you smile. I really love it when you smile. We’ll see each other soon, Love. I promise.

Yours forever,

Aiden

PD. Please say thanks to my mom for me and never show this letter to anyone.

PPD. I love you.

27 de Julio de 2020 a las 00:01 0 Reporte Insertar 0
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The care package, part 1

Dear Aiden,

I know this will take forever to get there, but I’ve been saving to send you this care package. I hope you like it. You must know, I’ve never done this before. When I got yours, I was startruck and dumbfunded for days. I kept replacing random words with “package” and I read your letter until my mom said I could rip it, so I put it away somewhere safe. I’m not used to having someone taking care of me, much less mail me such a gift from London. Thank you.

The candies are delicious, the sweater is divine and the postcard is amazing. But the necklace…That locket, this locket I’m wearing right now, is the best present ever. I remember the day you took that photo, you made me laugh so much I couldn’t breathe.

So, now it is my turn to send you something. In the following box you’ll find:

- Candy, chocolates, and coffee in grain (now you can show your friends how we make coffee at home). I know you took your coffee grinder with you even though I told you it was way too heavy. Show it off to your friends, babe.

- A brand new journal from that place we love. I had a hard time choosing it, they were all so pretty (and in case you’re wondering, yes, I bought one for me too. Matching journals. How cheesy), but I picked this one because it’s a warm green (my favorite color. Wink, wink) that looks professional enough to carry in your backpack, it can bend without losing its shape and the pages are thick and perfect for writing and watercoloring (you know I like to watercolor my journals). I’m also sending you refills for your fountain pen. Blue and black. You’re welcome.

- A copy (my copy) of my favorite book. I know I shouldn’t have because it takes space and weight, but I wanted you to have it so you can feel you’re reading it with me (when did I become this cheesy? I blame you). I love it when you nest your head on my lap and read to me, so this is me reading to you in the distance. See, I read it before sending it and made little notes in the margin (a very light pencil) about my thoughts and feelings on almost every page, so you know what I’d say even if I’m not there to say it. I know. Cheesy.

- Your mom gave me the shirts and scarves for me to send. I told her I was thinking about sending this on our weekly coffee (yes, that’s something we do now. We miss you) and she asked if she could send you something. She also sends the Amazon gift card. I told her we could buy it online but she said it’s much more special that way. I agree with her.

- And finally, the picture. I didn’t want to send it at first, but you asked for it. I mean, you have plenty on your phone and you could’ve just printed one yourself. It’s really not that special, so I altered your request a little. There are two pictures. The one from my graduation party says “I love you” in the back and I wrote the date too. I thought that would make it much more personal. You can use that one to show me off with your friends (your words, not mine). I took the other one two days before sending this. No make-up, no contacts, no lipstick. Just me, before going to bed. In case you’re wondering, yes, that’s a real kiss in the back, I covered it with contact paper so it wouldn’t smudge. I know you can’t tell, but I’m saying I love you. That one is for your eyes only. The real me. Me in the hoodie you left behind.

What have you done to me? I’m a pizza topping. If I’m going to be cheese, I think I’d be Pepperjack. You’re definitely mozzarella. What do you think?

Please tell me when you get this package. I want to know. I miss you, but I’m happy you’re fulfilling your dream. I hope London is everything you wished it was.

Yours forever,

Sierra.

P.d. Wear a hoodie a week and then mail it to me, please. Because reasons.

27 de Julio de 2020 a las 00:01 0 Reporte Insertar 0
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Anxiety

Sierra can’t take it any longer.
Her breathing gets heavy, her sight blurry and two seconds before it happens, she knows.
The coffee in her hand spills as her legs give away and she hugs her knees to her chest. She feels this time it’ll happen. This time she will die.
She knows what to do, but it’s always hard. She places her head between her knees and tries to breathe but she can’t. Tears are flowing down her cheeks. She’s aware people are watching. She melted just outside the cafeteria. She knows she’ll die. It already feels like it’s happening. She’ll die in front of people and her picture will be on the news later today.
Sierra feels someone sitting beside her and sliding a hand behind her shoulders.
“You’re going to be okay” he whispers. "Tell me what classes are you taking?"
Sierra doesn't recognize the voice. She barely hears it between the loud thump of her heart in her ears. She feels herself catch a breath and the shaking subsiding.
She almost didn't understand the question, but after a few seconds, she answers shakily "Econ one oh one... intro to psychology...English Lit...Computer science one oh one."
"What a rainbow of possibilities you have there," says he, "Now tell me about your favorite teachers."
Sierra takes a little longer to answer that.
Taking deep breaths, she manages to calm down and stop shaking completely. Sierra rubs her eyes before lifting her head. She finds two bright green eyes staring back at her.
“Do you feel better?” he asks. His voice clear now.
She just nods. Sierra doesn't trust she won't throw up if she opens her mouth.
“Stay here, okay? I’ll get you some tea.” He leaves his backpack next to her and rushes inside.
A few girls are staring at her. Sierra lowers her head to ignore them. She keeps breathing deeply and imagining the oxygen reaching all her bones and muscles. She closes her eyes and visualizes her happy place. A library full of books, a chimney, a cup of coffee, and a cozy sofa with a blanket. She could almost smell the fire. This is a great trick her therapist showed her. It helped calm down even before having a-
“I brought you some Chamomille tea,” the guy said, handing a paper cup to Sierra.
“Thank you” she whispers. “I’m sorry”
He looks at her bewildered, “for what?”
“For melting.”
“Do you always apologize for something you have no control over?” he slides back down next to her.
“Well… I guess not.”
“Then don’t. It’s not your fault. You don’t have to apologize.”
Sierra had a sudden realization. She always apologizes after a meltdown. To anybody, she’s with. They always say That’s okay or don’t worry about it. But he’s right. She shouldn’t have to. She can’t control them.
“I’m Aiden by the way,” he said, stretching his hand out.
“Sierra” she shakes it.
“Can I ask what happened?”
Sierra dreads this question, but she likes that he gave her the option to say no.
“It was a panic attack,” she said without meeting his eyes. She expects him to pitty her almost as much as she expects him to breathe.
Everybody does.
But he doesn’t.
“No, I know that. I mean what caused it? Would you like to talk about it with a stranger who won’t judge or anything?” Aiden smiles and Sierra is stunned.
“I’m not sure.”
“Okay” not a single drop of judgment on his face.
“Do you feel better?” He asks, looking right at her, which makes Sierra’s stomach flutter.
“Yes. Thank you.”
Aiden stands up and offers his hand to Sierra. She takes it and he pulls her up.
“Can I walk you to wherever you’re going?” he asks, both aware of their hands still clasped around each other.
“I’ll be okay. But really, thank you.” Sierra smiles and it’s enough to reassure Aiden that she’ll be fine (which is a pity, because he really wanted to walk with her).
“It was nice meeting you, Sierra.” He said smiling, shaking their (still clasped) hands.
Was it? Sierra thought, but she answers with, “You too” before he lets go and walks away.

24 de Junio de 2020 a las 15:14 0 Reporte Insertar 1
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The Airport

No matter how much I try, I can’t seem to keep my legs from shaking.
My plane ticket is already wet from all the sweat in my hands, and my passport is still suffering between my fingers, even though I’m sure I won’t need it again.
I’m going away.
On a plane.
Alone.
To the other side of the world.
Which is exciting and scary and amazing and horrible all at the same time.
I knew I was going to suffer the second I got the email, congratulating me for being one of the thirty lucky ones selected to study a masters degree abroad, on any subject you wanted.
My parents were overjoyed by the news and spent weeks telling everyone their little girl was going to Spain. Then it dawned on them that I’ll be gone two years, and smiles turned to tears. Eventually, I just stopped thinking about it altogether until two days before I had to go.
I packed up my clothes and other things and shipped them a week early to my new apartment, so I’m only carrying a small backpack now.
I’m not used to being alone. I like being alone, I’m just not comfortable doing new things on my own. And now I’m on my own. For two years.
I need a distraction. I can’t keep shaking and sweating and worrying here. I decided I should buy something. Maybe a coffee.
No. Not a coffee. I need to relax, not to get even more anxious. Chamomille tea. Yes.
I walk to the nearest coffee place, trying not to bump into anyone. It’s a high day at the airport, so there’s a lot of people walking around, trying to get to their doors on time.
There’s a line at the coffee shop, but I don’t mind waiting. It gives me time to read all the specials in case I get hungry when I get to the front. They have a high variety of teas, so I decide I’ll order Orange tea instead.
I finally get to the front, order my tea and wait for it for a few minutes. It’s hot between my hands, so I adjust my sweater between my hands and the cup.
I’m looking down at my hands, so I don’t see the man until its too late and we crash. My tea spills, burning my hands and surely him as well, given his suit is wet, but he seems not to care. He just growls at me and keeps walking. I lean down to pick up the empty cup when someone knocks me over and I hear my left foot crack before I fall.
Damn. I just recovered from an injury and it’s still healing. I breathe and brace myself for the pain that will come when I finally stand up.
“Let me help you.” Someone says, and I feel my face burn.
He reaches out to me and pulls me up. As I try not to let all my weight fall on him, I’m caught off guard at how strong he is. He doesn’t look like a very muscular guy.
“Are you okay?” he asks and I look at him for the first time.
His eyes are deep green and kind. He isn’t smiling, but I assume its a great smile. He’s wearing a blue hoodie and jeans and has a backpack on.
“I think so- AUCH” I wince as I try to put some weight on my left foot. His grip tightens.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got you,” he says, giving me a charming smile, which honestly just pisses me off.
“My hero,” I say sarcastically.
“At your service.” He winks at me, and something in my stomach twists.
I roll my eyes.
He is still holding on to me, making sure I don’t rest my hurt foot on the ground. We aren’t talking, I'm just waiting for the pain to subside. Kind of like when your foot goes numb and you have to wait for it to come back.
“Let me help you get back to your door” he offers, “miss…?”
“I think I can handle it,” I say smiling, “but thanks.”
I let go of him and stand up straight. It still hurts a bit, but I’m sure I can walk.
“Well,” he says, offering his arm as if this was a nineteen-century ball, “I still want to help you. You know, make sure you don’t fall again.”
Looking at him, waiting with his arm like that makes me feel like a Jane Austen character, being wooed.
Wooed. Stop it See, no one uses that word anymore.
Well... we might get back faster. I lace my arm under his and he smiles pleased.
“Door G7, please,” I say as if I'm taking a cab.
“As you wish” he answers, which makes me think of The Princess Bride.
We give a few try steps, and I can walk decently, though it would be much worse if he wasn’t helping. Eventually, we get in a rhythm, and he decides to talk.
“So, where are you headed?” he asks, alternating between looking at our feet and our way. Not me.
“Abroad”
“Vague answers, good job. You passed Strangers 101.” He laughs at his joke, which I find cute.
“How about you, Wesley?” I say “Can I call you Wesley?”
“Sure. And I’m going to London.” He said.
“Bussiness or pleasure, Wes?”
“Studies. Why Wesley?”
“It’s from The Princess Bride”
He nods in understanding. We walk in silence for a while, and I notice a few things about him. His grip is firm, and each time I take a step, he tenses his arm so I can use it as support. His eyebrows are dark and full, like two little roofs on top of doodle houses. He also smells good, which is an impressive thing to find in an airport.
We reach my door and I sit down and take a breath.
“Thank you, Wes,” I say sincerely. I think he’s about to leave when he plops down on the seat next to mine. “Shouldn’t you go back to your door?”
“Mine’s across the hall. I can stay here, make sure you’re ok.”
“I am ok, Wes. Seriously. It’s just an old injury”
“Exactly how old?”
“Like, two, maybe three months.”
“So it’s a baby injury. Can’t risk it,” he said, taking off his backpack and setting it on the seat next to him.
“So” he turns towards me “Spain, huh?”
“How would you know?” I say
“I can read minds, Buttercup.”
This is so cheesy.
“Plus,” he adds “your destination is written on the door”.
I turn and surely, there’s a sign reading “Barcelona, Spain”.
“Well if you must know, yes. I won a scholarship and I’m going to Spain for a while.”
“How long is a while?”
“Two years”
“That’s a long while”
“I know”
He tells me about his studies. He's researching human behavior which I find incredibly interesting. After a while, he gets up and tells me he’ll be right back.
I figure he won’t, so I take out my copy of Pride and Prejudice, and keep reading as I’m waiting for my plane.
Reading also relaxes me, maybe because I forget I’m me and for a moment I’m someone else. Someone without anxiety and panic attacks.
Fifteen minutes go by and by the time he comes back, it’s almost time for me to go.
He has a cup on his hands.
“Here,” He says, as he hands me the hot cup. “Don’t spill it”
“What is it?”
“It’s Chamomille tea. It always calms me down when I travel, though I’m more of a coffee person.”
“Me too. But coffee makes me more anxious sometimes.”
“Are you an anxious person, Buttercup?”
“No.” I say, doing my best English accent and placing the back of my hand dramatically on my forehead, “I am a lady who is sadly engaged with a man whom I do not love.”
“Sad predicament milady. What can a simple servant do to ease your sorrows?” he says, with the fakest accent I’ve heard.
“Oh, there is so little you can do, Stable Boy. So very little.”
He smiles while looking at me.
“Yeah, I’m anxious,” I say, normal again.
Then I tell him about the panic attacks.
If there’s one thing clear about me, is that I don’t talk about my anxiety. Ever.
It’s something I’ve controlled over the past, and with the correct routine, I’ve improved a lot. The only people with whom I discuss this is my mom, and Charlie, my best friend. They know how to read the signs and calm me down before something happens
Sometimes things happen anyway.
I don’t know what makes me feel so calm and comfortable with Wes. I don’t even know his real name, but he seems to take in what I say pretty easily. This is weird, mainly because I don’t usually let so much out if it's not with my therapist.
He listens.
“I kind of hate it,” I say, “but I kind of love it too.”
“Why?”
“Well, it’s like having an extra layer on. Like having an armor. Me against the world. But at the same time, I wish I could take it off completely and just… be free.”
“Well, I kind of know how you feel” He adjusts on his seat so his head is resting at the back of the chair. He looks taller than he is sitting like this. Although he is still taller than me. He probably would be taller than me in heels. “About the being free part, I mean. I wouldn’t dare to compare your anxiety with anything of mine.”
It’s a very refreshing comment. Everyone always says they know exactly what I mean because they live stressed lives. Not the same, people. I never correct them because I don’t see the point anymore. That’s why I stopped talking about it altogether. It made me feel like I was overreacting something when I’m not.
“How so?” I finally answer.
“Well, my family is… pressing. I like my area of studies, I do. But I wish I could do more.” He’s staring at the ceiling.
“If you could do whatever you want, what would you want to do?”
He thinks about it for a second before smiling the most dashing smile ever, and saying “I’d be a writer.”
“That’s impressive.”
“I’ve never said that out loud before” he sits back up and stares at me.
He has a calming presence, which is probably a result of his study of human behavior.
Oh, God. Is he studying me right now?
He’s just staring at me.
“What?” I say
“You’re a very interesting person, lady Buttercup” he leans in a little.
“You too, Wesley. Although I hardly know a thing about you.”
“Well then,” he says, which isn’t an answer.
All the passengers from flight 5604 to London, England, please approach door G6
“Well,” he says standing up, “that’s my call. I hope you find your happy ending, lady Buttercup.”
“Princess”
“What?”
“It’s princess Buttercup”
He smiles and my heart jumps.
I watch him walk away, as my flight gets called too.
I stand in line, wondering if I’ll ever see him again. Probably not. Probably this is the only time I’ll ever meet Wesley and I don’t even know his name.
This is probably one of those things you’re just meant to remember as a pleasant story, rather than your actual story.
“Hey” I hear “Hey Princess!”
I turn around, and I see Wesley running towards me. My line keeps moving but I standstill.
“Can I call you?” He asks, “When you’re in Spain, can I call you?”
“Yeah, but I don’t have a number yet. I’ll have to get one when I settle in”
His face fell. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right”
“I could give you my email”
“Okay! Yes!” he is visibly excited. People are beginning to stare.
He takes out his phone and I say “[email protected]
He laughs. “Thank you, princess. It will be my honor to write you a letter”
“I’m looking forward to reading it,” I say in the same awful English accent as before. “And, my name is Sierra”
“I’m Aiden.”
“Goodbye, Aiden” I shout as he ran across the hall again, back to his door.
“Goodbye, Princess!” He screams back.
I get inside the plane and into my window seat. I’m nervous but somehow less nervous than I was before.
The seatbelt light goes on and a stewardess asks us to turn off all electronic devices. I do, but not before creating my new email address.
**
The flight is horribly long.
I get to Barcelona, and a lady is waiting for me with a sign. She takes me to my apartment and explains how the scholarship works. I have two weeks to settle in before classes start, which is great.
I have wifi in my apartment already. My dad sent someone to fix it for me before I arrived. My things are already here. All in boxes, but still. I start unpacking just the vital stuff. I’ll get to the rest later.
When I finish, I open my inbox on my computer, where the usual email congratulating me for creating my account is. It takes a few refreshes but it finally appears.
Like Kathleen Kelly.
I’ve got mail.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Dear Princess,
It is a pleasure to be writing to you today.
I’ve arrived in London and managed to get ahold of a new English phone number (you were right). I intend to give it to you, however, I must admit this way of communication is underrated.
I hope to hear from you soon,
Wesley.
a.k.a. Aiden
.

24 de Abril de 2020 a las 00:02 1 Reporte Insertar 3
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