By the Yearning Writer 

Dear Freddie Poo, 

It’s really not funny anymore, Freddie. I shouldn’t have to air out our affairs in the newspaper like this just for you to acknowledge me. I’m risking everything — my job, my reputation, my dignity. I’m mortified. 

I know I’m not blameless here, Freddie. I sensed your pain in those final sleepless nights we shared. I could see the sorrow in your eyes at College Night, at every athletic event, at every public appearance. I knew you were unhappy. 

Every time I feel the baby kick, I can only think of you. Even if our love is lost, I want her to know her father. But maybe no one can truly know you. 

It wasn’t just your job that kept us so far apart, Freddie. I thought I would somehow get used to sharing you with everyone else. After all, you’re a beloved mascot representing our entire institution; and I’m just the writer that fell in love at the wrong time. 

I hear you’ve already moved on to your next side project. A little birdy told me you’re entertaining a man now. Despite it all, I support you on your journey. Find yourself, Freddie. I hope you treat him better than you treated me — though we both know his fate will be the same. 

Almost every day lately, Freddie, I’ve been going to the campus bookstore that bears your name. I see the purple lettering on the storefront and remember how foolish I was to think you could ever be mine. 

I look at the display of your signature Freddie Falcon plushies. I know I can’t afford one since I’ll soon be raising a child alone. Yet, in the middle of the store, I hold one in my arms and close my eyes: it’s almost you. Maybe it’s the closest I’ll ever get to having you again. Maybe it’s enough.  

Yours truly, 

The Yearning Writer