Justin lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Well, the bottom of Lance's bunk. Same difference. He lay there, mulling over anything that happened to cross his mind, from things as trivial as whether he wanted to switch his toothpaste to much deeper life issues. like death. and love. He knew he should be sleeping. He was only allowed to sleep for a set amount of time. Early the next morning, he'd be awakened. Always the same routine. It got rather monotonous. Interviews and performances consumed his life everyday. There was barely enough time for eating and sleeping, let alone fun. The concept of "free time" had long ago become a foreign notion.
Heaving an exasperated sigh, Justin decided to do something constructive, since sleep obviously wasn't coming anytime soon. Slipping from his bunk, he exited the sleeping area towards the back of the bus.
He plopped heavily onto the couch and began sorting through the piles of fan mail scattered around the lounge area of the bus. Justin needed some inspiration. Maybe one of these letters, one of these fans, could help with that. Maybe they could give him motivation to keep on keeping on.
But maybe not, too. He came upon letter after letter, but nothing stood out as special. They could have all been copies of the same letter as far as he was concerned. Each one was addressed in colorful ink and decorated with small hearts and 'I love you's. He set these aside, exploring further, looking for something different.
Then he found that something different. A plain white envelope. No fancy colors, pictures, or elaborate designs. His name was scrawled across the front in plain black ink. The handwriting was simple, but it held an air of maturity, much unlike the childish scrawl adorning the other letters. Yes, this letter was most certainly different from the others.
Intrigued, Justin removed the letter from the envelope carefully. In his hand, he held ordinary lined notebook paper with the same black ink and the same handwriting. He thought the letter smelled faintly of peaches, but it could've just been his mind playing tricks on him. It was late after all. He smiled softly to himself and began to read.
Justin,
Is it all right if I call you Justin? I thought 'Mr. Timberlake' sounded too formal. Forgive me, if my directness offends you in any way.
I have been watching you lately, Justin. More so than I usually would. My little sister, Ruthie, adores your group and is always watching you on television. I have been seeing more and more of you, and as of late, I've started to pay more attention to what I've been seeing.
Your music is absolutely incredible. There are hardly words to describe the vocal harmonies that the five of you create. Every time I hear your voices, I'm amazed all over again. Each note reaches my heart, and your voice, in particular, soothes me. I can sleep more easily listening to your voice. It lures me to sleep like the song of an angel.
But that is not even the point of this letter, although I would like to express my appreciation of your music and all that you do.
You're special, Justin. I can just tell. There's more to you than a pretty face. I don't understand how they can't see past the image. ('They' being the fans) They claim to be devoted and to truly care, but they speak of you as if you are an object and not a complex soul with a unique personality.
They mean well, I'm sure...these girls who scream your name and beg for recognition. But how can they say they love you, when they don't know you? How can they call themselves your admirers, when what they want and admire is the image and not you at all?
I see you there...on stage, at interviews, everywhere. I see all that they see, but so much more. Naturally, the image is visible first - the wild clothes, curly hair, and confident grin (You really pull it off nicely, you know...you should look into acting.) But I can tell that it's all a fa�ade. Your eyes aren't happy, they're pained and tired. You aren't some
brainless popstar, meant to be ogled. You're an individual with an indescribable personality that has been twisted into something you are not. I bet you wish that you'd never allowed a single word of slang to slip past your lips. I bet you're sick of all that is baby blue, until the point of puking.
I can't help but wonder if you're happy. It's crazy I know, but I worry about you. Sometimes you sound like you have a cold and my heart hurts for you. I see those bags from lack of sleep beneath your eyes, and I want you to forget the fame and just go take a nap. When you seem upset, I want to hold you in my arms and tell you that everything will be just fine.
I hope that you read this letter. Not because I want your recognition, not because I expect you to write back, and certainly not because I want to have your child. I just want you to know that someone sees more than the image,
someone understands...or at least empathizes. I'm trying to understand what you go through, but it's hard to comprehend when I haven't been there myself.
I know that you're a busy man, although I wish you weren't. It's just not healthy, the way you live. So I'll end this letter now. Just remember that, although you can't see me, I am here, I do care, and I'm trying to understand.
Alicia
Justin stared at the page in his hands, eyes wide and mouth open. How could someone understand what he was going through so clearly? Alicia didn't even know him. How could she possibly know exactly what he needed to hear?
Gradually, Justin recovered from the shock, and a content smile spread across his face. He carefully folded the letter and returned it to its envelope. He crept back to his bunk and slid beneath the covers, placing the letter beneath his pillow for safekeeping.
He sighed once more, but this was a content sigh. He relaxed into the bed and closed his eyes gently. He knew sleep would come more easily now than it had for a long time. Within moments, Justin began drifting off to sleep, knowing somewhere out there, Alicia cared...and she understood.
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