LETTERS NEVER DELIVERED · Vitaly
Mayuri,
I am writing this because I have a formal complaint about the sun you brought home from the carnival.
It is yellow in a way that should be biologically impossible. Its face is ridiculous. It has feet. Suns do not need feet. I have explained this to you twice, and you continue to place the damn thing where I can see it.
Yesterday you moved it beside my framed race number.
Tenth place, Princess. Tenth. Beneath a wall of actual achievements, I now have proof of my worst finish and a stuffed celestial body grinning at me like an idiot.
I was going to move both.
Then I remembered the hydration station. The gold gauges. The moment I nearly knocked you over because you weren't watching where you were going. I remember being furious with you. I also remember that before the day was over, I was already trying to find an excuse to see you again.
Four months ago, I would have said a good day was one in which I beat my last time. Now I keep track of when your shift ends, whether you've eaten, and which ridiculous story you'll tell me before I can even get my shoes off.
My training hasn't suffered, for the record. I still intend to win next year.
But I no longer think tenth place was the worst thing that happened to me.
Don't smile like that!! I know you're smiling!! I can practically hear it through the paper.
Love, Vitaly
P.S. Fine, the fucking stuffed sun stays.