Lennox's Lummox Letters

“You look kinda like a Forget-me-not which makes sense since, well, yer-”

The paper is crumbled and tossed to the side, pencil pulled away before it’s wasted and the eraser not even a thought in his head as the letter falls. It’s joined on the floor alongside many, many more akin to itself. Pieces of partially-written poetry, love letters, ideas, barely even thought-out words strewn together in a mess he’d never give the honor of being called a sentence. It’s going as well as herding a Killy. Terribly. Disastrously. Other words to describe a similarly terrible event. 

Lennox puts his head in his hands, scrubbing his poor face with his hands that are rough from years of tending to the cosprouts. It’s not that hard to write a silly little letter, is it? No one else should struggle this bad with something so simple. But maybe that’s the irony of it all, he can do a task no other cossetling would ever willingly do but the moment it’s something everyone can do, he’s doomed. Stumped. Entangled in the roots of anguish and agony.

Maybe he should just pick one of the complete letters on the pile next to the desk, they’re complete and have enough to be worth reading, but they’re not to his impossibly high standards. He isn’t even sure what his standards are, but whatever he’s done isn’t good enough. How does Malcolm make it look so damn easy-

Lennox takes in a deep breath, pulling his mouth into a straight line. If he keeps debating and rewriting and doing the same thing over and over, the whole reason he even wanted to write the letters to begin with would be over. Psyche Remembrance, what a silly holiday. And yet, he’s fallen victim to the cycle of cute stationary and heart-shaped stickers and cupid’s arrows. What a sap. But the idea of Malcolm opening up a letter, his soft smile at the words Lennox chose and how he tried to emulate the magic the other puts into the pages… 

Lennox violently shakes his head and gets up from his desk with a start. He grabs the first handful of letters available, two, three, five, seven, ten pages of papers. Whatever. A stray envelope (not stray at all based on the perfectly written address and familiar lamba-scratch signature) is shoved full of said pages before being shut just as quickly. Whatever. It’ll get delivered on time, it’ll show up on the correct doorstep, it’s fine. It’s fine! 

It’s shoved hastily into his coat pocket before strapping his boots on, tucking the tops of his cellouse into them before getting the tops knotted and bowed. It’s a routine thing, okay? It has to be perfect or he can’t continue on his day without feeling off-center. His hat settles softly atop his head, and with a small huff, he steps foot outside and begins the trek to the post office. Hopefully no one recognizes him along the way, that’d be a nightmare…