He handed me a folded piece of lined paper. It was sloppily folded in half and then in half again. The creases didn't line up. I could feel the raised bumps of the words within it. Either he writes with a fine-tipped pen or writes very hard.

He told me not to open it while he was there, so I put it in my back pocket. I forgot about it for two days until I wore those jeans again. I was in the queue at the post office and put my hand in my pocket. I opened it excitedly, wondering what could be written within.

He used a black felt tip pen. The letters were messily scrawled. I could tell he wrote it frantically, spur-of-the-moment, just as the thoughts were spewing from his brain. It was filterless. The purest thought. I read each word slowly, as if the words would somehow sink into my brain better that way.

He scrawled the date in the top right corner of the page. It began with my name. I soaked up each word like a cold-blooded snake soaks up the sun. I read everything meticulously. Each word sank into my skin and within my bones.

"You pushed me to be the best I can be and I don't take that for granted. Everything I do is for me but also for you."

This is a handwritten letter.