Dear Toby,

Dear Toby,

In my inner pocket, I've found a notebook. Whether you're texting me or leaving voicemails, I don’t know. I will continue to write to you in this notebook until I receive my phone back. Everyone on this plane is staring at me.

They had everything packed. They packed my belongings. I'm unsure if the items in the bags they've packed for me are actually mine, but I haven't had a chance to look for myself.

When was the appropriate time for me to inspect the contents of the bags my mother packed for me? Could I have looked inside the bags when my parents picked me up at the police station? Or maybe at the airport? My father is wearing a fucking suit right now. He wore a suit for this. Should I search the carry-on bags that my mother and father packed right here, in row twenty-three, on the filthy carpeted airplane aisle?

What if my mom bought everything new for me from Amazon? T-shirts and New Balances with velcro. Oh my god, why didn't you answer the fucking phone when I called you? I left you a voicemail from the police station on Santa Monica Boulevard, and I haven't had my phone since. I don't remember what I said to you. I know I cried. Tonight, I cried across Los Angeles, and seven hours later, I've found myself in an airplane over Illinois, arguing with a flight attendant about borrowing a pen.

I had to borrow a pen to write this. I didn't want to open the bag my mother gave me. I am not interested in discovering what she has packed. The confrontation with the attendant over the pen was less exhausting and I’ve never been more exhausted in my life.

I wasn't arrested. They only brought me in because I was screaming, crying, and yelling at a man in a Camry who was trying to lure me in.

It felt right to lose it on Hollywood Boulevard. Everything you and I had ever said or done suddenly became meaningless, as all I was living for was the promise of more to come.

You promptly wrapped six pairs of socks for me as a gift and placed one pair of them on my small feet when they felt cold. Was that too much intimacy for you? Is that why you did what you did last night? Is that why I did what I did last night?

When no one is staring at me, I'll write more.
I hope my mother packed a pair of the socks you gave me.

Susanna