Mr. Hummel,

         Oh, that felt weird. Why did I call you by your surname? That was silly – I have never called you that before. Then again, I have known you only a day…and now I am rambling. This is my first letter to you and I am making a complete fool of myself. Naturally. I think I will just continue now.

         We met just last night and I was going to make myself wait to start this letter until I get back home, but I just could not wait. So we left less than five minutes ago and I’m in the carriage now, so if you cannot read my writing, I am terribly sorry and I assure you I usually write a lot better than this. Oh look, I am rambling again. It seems it is all I can do these days.

         I was very glad to have made your acquaintance, Kurt, and I hope I will be able to call you a dear friend shortly. Though, I suppose, you would need to know more about me to start to process of becoming dear friends. Well, I am sixteen years old. I enjoy learning, but I did not enjoy schooling.  My favourite pastime is reading in windowsills. I tend to eat too many biscuits at once and give myself a stomachache. Oh, what else? Uhhh…I don’t mind mornings, but I do mind waking up, though the promise of breakfast is usually enough to convince me out of bed. My favourite colour is green, though I seem to have a new appreciation for very light blue. I do not want to return home.

         I feel so comfortable telling you any and everything about me, it seems, without fear of being rejected or ridiculed. I have never had someone like that before.

         Do you wish to know a secret?

         I like it.

Sincerely Yours (and hoping I’ve not frightened you off),

Blaine Anderson

Post Script – please do not think it odd that I asked my aunt for your address. And you do not have to write back, if you do not wish. Though I think I will be eagerly waiting for your return letter, anyway.

I still have every single one of his letters. I keep them wrapped together in strips of cloth from our first tablecloth we bought together, in a chest with our marriage suits. Perhaps I could somehow have them bound into a book… Oh, I am a silly, sentimental old man, aren’t I? I digress.

Those few days after I met Blaine, everything seemed…duller, somehow. I went by the Bainbridge household the next morning to see if he wanted to do anything from walk into town to sit and read before he had to return home, but he had left already. He had a long ride home, apparently, and had gotten an early start. I spent the rest of the week in a bit of a haze. The world’s colours were muted. The laughter and promise of shopping that comes with spending time with Miss Berry did not keep me as content as before. It felt like something…someone…was missing. 

Miss Rachel and I often went shopping in town. We shared a passion for clothing and pretty things. After a day of moping around my house, she decided a bit of shopping would cheer me up and into town we went. We picked out hats and plenty of ribbons to adorn them. I also found the most wonderful broaches with pretty little jewels on them that were a certain sparkling shade of brown. We got tea and muffins, as was our usual custom, while fawning over our new purchases. As customary, Rachel decided then she just had to have a dress for the new season to impress the menfolk.

I found myself distracted by a tray of hat pins while Miss Rachel was off gallivanting when Miss Quinn came over to me. Now, if you wanted the latest gossip, you went to Miss Quinn. She somehow managed to know everything the moment it happened.  Her father was the parish pastor and she had taken a job under the shopkeeper to prove to herself and everyone else that she can be more than a pastor’s daughter.  Of course, that had gotten her into trouble, later on, but that’s not important to our story. What IS important is what she asked me.

‘So do you think you and Rachel will be married?’

I was absolutely shocked, to say the least. True, I spent most of my free time with Miss Rachel, but I had never seen her as more than a friend. A sister, perhaps, but never a… lover or wife.

‘Why do you ask that?’

‘Well, you two are often together and you look on her fondly… at our age, that is enough for parents to arrange two people to be married. One fond look.’

That was a frightening thought.  It was true – most people my age were entering engagements and many were already married, but I never thought of entering one myself. Especially not with Miss Rachel. Miss Quinn went off to help some young girl who had managed to somehow tangle herself in ribbons while I stood there, thinking. Surely my father would not be thinking about an engagement for me… he had not mentioned one and I had never mentioned an attraction to anyone or an interest of entering one, so I put it out of my mind and went to find Miss Rachel before she chose a dress meant for a child. 

A few nights later, supper with Father was quiet.  Now, he never was a very talkative man, but he was just…quiet. Enough for me to notice, but not enough to mention it. We were almost finished before he spoke.

‘I almost forgot – a letter came for you this afternoon.’

‘A letter? From whom?’ I was not expecting a letter from anyone and anyone who would even send me one lived just over the hill.

‘I did not take notice. Just saw your name and put it on your desk in the study. Eat your beans.’

It wasn’t until much later that night that I was able to actually read the letter. When I saw whom it was from, I felt like crying.

Blaine.

He did not forget me – he did not leave me. Not entirely.

I had no idea how he got my address, but I could not find myself able to care. I was too happy about knowing I had a way to contact this boy again.

I ripped it open and read it as quickly as possible, but read it again three times before I could actually put it down and I did so only to start a letter of my own.

Mr. Anderson,

         Oh, you are right – it does feel weird to call you by your surname. I think I shall try this again.

Blaine (much better),

         I can assure you that I was not frightened off by your letter. In fact, it made me quite happy. I had gone by your Aunt and Uncle’s house to see if I could have your address before you left, but you had already left. I was very sad to have seemingly lost someone with the potential to become my best friend.

         I hope you like gossip, because I am about to share some with you. Are you ready? I was in town with Miss Rachel the other day; do you remember her from the garden party? Anyway. We were in town and a friend of ours suggested that Miss Rachel and I marry. Can you imagine the absurdity? She is my best friend, yes, but one can only handle so many doses of Rachel Berry in a short time before going clinically insane.

I hope you do not find that comment too cross or mean. I tend to be that way, but mostly in a sarcastic manner. I hardly ever truly mean the horrid things I say… though Miss Rachel is rather good at annoying people. And her fashion sense – don’t get me started, I’ll never stop. She is lucky she has me to dress her; otherwise she would have no suitors whatsoever.

I should probably stop complaining about my best friend now, shouldn’t I?

I just realised I’ve left out all pleasantries. I shall do them now, at the end of my letter. Keep things rousing.

I hope this letter finds you well. The weather has been quite nice since you left. I bought a new hat. What else is there… alas, I can think of nothing, which means this must be the end of my letter.

Sincerely Yours,

Kurt Hummel

Post Script – I think I like your rambling. It seems more like I am talking to you rather than reading something you wrote a handful of days ago. Also, your handwriting is perfectly acceptable – especially for having written it in a carriage. In fact, one might even say I am impressed.

Post Post Script – I suppose it is now my turn to eagerly await your reply.