I was not twelve when it happened, but near enough. I remember walking into a movie theater with my mom, dragging her in to see your movie debut. For weeks, my school was abuzz about your prowess on TV, your sexiness, your intellect, and that you were finally taking it to the big screen. Intrigued by the adoration, I decided to see what all the fuss was about. Sitting in that theater as the lights went down, I was not prepared with what was about to take over my body. Endless, unyielding fangirling. The truth was out there, and it was love.
With those first few exchanges, your beautiful, albeit brilliant, agents shook walls with their platonic activity, challenging each other with words and soul-piercing gazes. I didn’t know Scully and Mulder, but I sure as hell wanted to. There was conspiracy, Martin Landau, and an immediate aversion to Africanized honey bees. I don’t know what came over me, but by the time the house lights came up, I knew two things: I was in love with you, and I needed more.
Since that fated moment, I have been on a never-ending binge of your television excellence. From that clandestine pilot episode to that ill-fated second movie, I have been there miles adrift, inches apart. I have shuddered at the vent-crawling Eugene Tooms, been agog by the way with words Pusher, and discovered a new-found passion for baseball, but only in the arms of a certain Fox Mulder.
You were a sly temptress, alternating storytelling on a weekly basis. But every episode captivated me, and if one had slightly missed the mark, it felt redeemed the following week. From monster of the week to conspiracy and standalone, I was mesmerized. And as Mulder oft puts it, I was “not alone.” Millions like me tuned in, watching you shatter gender archetypes, reset partner pairings, and make sci-fi mainstream and science sexy.
But, like all star-crossed loves, ours was not meant to last, or so I thought. For as your creator Chris Carter has said, “No one really dies on The X-Files.” After a questioning second movie, I was sure the beams of light from your beautiful government agents would never cross my screen again, and thus began my pining via binge watching your brilliance on Netflix. So, when your 2015 announcement arrived, I was not prepared. You were returning, albeit briefly, to once more caress me with your intellect, your passion, and your Dorian Gray of a Dana Scully.
So, we have arrived to the present. Whilst I am writing this letter, you are mid-Season 10, words I had never thought to read nor utter. What is unyielding is my love for you, but what is more intriguing and awe inspiring is your returned devotion. Your Easter Egg-laden episodes, your dedicated cast and crew. This love goes both ways, a mutual respect much shared like your leading agents. Though slow to start, you have returned looking as radiant as I remember, perhaps even more so.
And so, I wait with baited breath, now looking forward to my Mondays, only to be wrought with bittersweet longing, for six episodes is not near enough. And yet, maybe it is, for now. I want to believe our love affair is unending and will continue on in both old ways and new. That you will come back to me year after year, reliving your television excellence and allowing me to trust no one with my fangirl heart but you.
So, leave me you must, but come back to me. 'Till then, I wait in the FBI basement, or in the anteroom. The choice is yours.
Your phile of a fangirl,