And I blushed when I read his description of my eyes.

Stella!


Thanks for the letter. There's really a lot to write ... but I think this has to be a short letter anyway ...
We saw each other at the trial ... if you are who I think you are ... dark hair, "Bambi-eyes," and punk rock clothes ...


So begun the letter that landed in our generic green mailbox a few days later, after I had returned from Umeå and the trial. I had been dark and agitated. Staying in my room, in my bed, wanting only to kill time and then trembling when thinking about the implications. I have a short life and I am terrified of it ending, but still I spend lots of my very limited time killing time, killing life.
I had hit my sister with a clog in the face drawing blood. My dad had given my time-out in the sauna. So I sat there eating graham crackers and crying very non-Hollywood tears.
And then this letter came. From my wrongly accused misunderstood rebel. And I blushed when I read his description of my eyes.
He had noticed me. It wasn't just my imagination. He had really seen me, for real.