If you are new to my blog, WELCOME. And if you’re not, WELCOME BACK. I know that a lot of you are pining for some Ed action.
Let’s be honest here, sex with Ed sounds good…right? You know what also sounds good? the sound of Ed reading something written about him. (even if he isn’t into his own kissing description…Let’s not forget he is an ass man :) )
Unfortunately, I don’t have any of that for you tonight. 95% of what i write is more than surface level imaginary sex. And if you’ve read anything besides “Twenty Two” you’ll know what i’m talking about. However, I’m not AGAINST writing mature one shots, you’ll find a couple of them on the one-shot list.
But for tonight, i’m keeping it PG Rated.
I still hope you enjoy it anyways!!
IF YOU DO ENJOY IT, click the heart at the top right corner of the page and “like” the post, and send me some feedback in an ask!
I Did Not Keep Your Letters: An Ed Sheeran One Shot:
I received every letter you sent me.
I did not keep them.
I read them, and burned them.
But make no mistake,
I read them all.
Bringing up the past has no benefit. It leaves us angry, completely disheveled, caught up in justifying our actions. It drives us further apart, creating a void of “what could have been” that haunts the both of us for the rest of the present and part of the future. What makes it worse is the end result is always the same. You stay in Nashville, writing letters to me, and I stay in England, completely in love with Ed, who has his fist wrapped tightly around my heart, filling the space between my ribs, making it known that he’s not going down without a fight.
“Another one,” Ed tosses the plain envelope onto the table in front of me, your bright and shiny last name occupying the upper left hand corner. His voice is cold, hurt, distant
Sometimes, I’m convinced you just put your name up there to mark your territory, to drive Ed away. It never works. Yet the way Ed hands me the letters grow in anger with every one you send.
“You know,” he finishes his thought, sitting down across from me, folding his arms over his chest, “You should just tell him to stop writing you letters. It’s not like you respond to them…unless there’s something you’re not telling me”
The last part was hushed under his breath—an utterance not meant for me to hear. He didn’t have to say it out loud. I could tell it was on his mind with every defensive arm cross, every disgusted facial expression when he puts the letters in front of me. I don’t blame him. This isn’t some kind of crush. This is my life with him. This is the life I want.
He sits there, watching me as I slide my forefinger under the seal, gently opening the letter, pulling out the folded paper inside. As I slipped the paper out, a metal object fell out of the envelope as well, landing on the table beneath it. We both stop to look at it. A small, bronze key lays on the table, the meaning only clear in the context of the letter.
I watch Ed shake his head, almost in disbelief as he gets up.
“He gives you a god damned key,” his voice is loud and frustrated, “he knows you’re with someone. He’s doing it to piss me off, and it’s working.”
He slams a fist on the table, sending a shiver up my spine as I flinch at his anger. I look at him, catching nothing but rage from his glare as he stands up and walks away.
He’s right. You’re such a prick. I pick the key up, running my fingers over the cool grooves. I can only imagine what this key is to. Only 2 words are written on the letter. “remember this?” in bright red ink, above your phone number.
You piece of shit. I hate how you do that. Sending a key, pressuring me to remember things that I try to forget. I spend no time trying to place it in my memory. Knowing you, it’s probably to the house where we met, or the apartment we almost bought, or the mailbox I used to send love letters to, before I knew any better—before I knew what love actually was. Before I knew Ed.
I pick up my phone, my fingers punching *67 before the numbers written in red into my phone, putting the receiver to my ear.
“I thought you’d never call” your voice is sweet, just the way I remember it. You’re your favorite tactic, trying to make me weak with the way your words roll off your tongue, “I’ve been waiting all day.”
“Stop sending me letters, you prick.” I growl into the phone, trying to keep my anger in check by clenching my fists, “It has been over for years, okay?”
“You read them all” you reply. I can practically hear the grin on your face, “or else you wouldn’t have called me.”
“Stop sending them” this time I’m louder, more aggressive, “Our relationship was based on the idea that I deserved the world, without having to work for any of it. You bought me everything, because you didn’t think that I could earn it. You laughed at ALL of my jokes, even when they weren’t funny. Is it possible for me to bore someone so much that they just laugh out of courtesy? I hated that. I don’t want any of that. I don’t want you.”
I practically slam my thumb onto the “end call” button, trying to hang up the conversation, and our relationship.
I throw the phone down onto the table, throwing the key and the letter into the garbage can. I pace the kitchen a few times, trying to gauge Ed’s response to all of this. On one hand, he has every right to be angry with me. An ex-flame, sending me weekly letters, all of which I read. The constant gnawing thought that maybe he’s not good enough constantly haunts him. On the other hand, everyone has a past. He can’t hold that against me. I don’t hold his past relationships against him. I don’t hold her against him.
I bite the side of my thumb before making my way down the hall, into the bedroom, where Ed is laying on the bed, jotting down something in a small notebook.
“What?” He finally looks up at me, as I linger in the doorway, “Are you going to say something or just stand there all afternoon?”
“I don’t respond to any of the letters” I announce to him, leaning against the door frame, “I know you think I do, but I don’t.”
“I don’t care what you do” he condescendingly chuckles, shaking his head, focusing back on the paper in front of him.
“If I wanted to be with him, I would” I state, flatly, “I know what I want out of life, Ed. I picked you. If I wanted him, I would have no problem getting up and walking out. I’m too young to be tied down to a relationship that I don’t whole-heartedly want.”
His eyes don’t lift off of the page, and I sigh, frustrated, turning away from him.
“Tell me what the problem is, Ed” I plead with him, “I’m not going to sit around and guess why you’re pissed off. I don’t want to think you’re mad over something when you’re not. Let’s just avoid a misunderstanding and just put it all out there.”
“you still read them” he stops me, as I turn around, “you still read them, and think about them, and decide against them.”
“I read them because I’m afraid if I don’t, I’ll never understand the reason that I left.” I answer him, “I read them because it reminds me of how big of a prick he is. He confesses what he thinks is love, in every letter to me. Tells me all of the things he thinks I want to hear, that he’ll be waiting in Nashville, that he’ll do better this time. All I have to do is leave you.”
“And?” He inquires, as I take a deep breath, ready to continue.
“And I burn them so I’m not reminded of his attempts.” I shrug my shoulders, exhaling, “He doesn’t know what love is. You do. You don’t have to write it out. Everything you do, even the smallest things, like the way you willingly hand me the letters from him, regardless of how pissed you are. That’s love. You don’t hide things from me, especially not anger, or love, or fear.”
“I hate it” he rubs his hand over his face, in frustration, “I trust you and I love you, but it pisses me off that he can’t see that. I just wish he’d stop.”
“You’re so strong and I know that you don’t even realize it. You have my heart. You know me inside and out. You know what I like and what I hate and how to get me to smile and cry and laugh. You know my fears, my hopes and dreams, my life goals. You stick up for me even when you know I’m wrong, and you’re not afraid to tell me that you’re in love with me in front of everyone. You are everything to me, and most days I fear that you will never realize that.” I sigh, “I know that it pisses you off.”
“I’m half tempted to fly over there and kick his ass” he mutters, “fucking prick.”
“I told him not to send anymore” I assure him, “if he does, I’m not going to read them. It’s not fair to anyone involved.”
He sets the notepad down, getting up off of the bed to close the gap between us. He envelopes me in his arms as I exhale against his chest. His hands make slow circles up and down my back.
“just stay with me, okay?” he mumbles into my hair, “just stay here, with me.”
He wants it just as much as I do, and that’s enough to put Nashville, and the thoughts of you behind me, forever.