Two years ago, there was a lonely girl who finally fell in love. She was a shy, sullen sort who worked full time as a data entry specialist. That was the title that HR decided would make her feel validated and empowered; it didn’t.
By night, she moonlighted as a writer. She never made one cent off of her creative endeavors, partly because she never felt confident enough about her work to push to have it published. In fact, she had always felt a little embarrassed by her stories. They were less diligently crafted works of literature than raw streams of consciousness and records of her dreams; abstract accounts of real people, places, and things. Honest admissions dressed up as lies; to protect the innocent and the guilt. In her mind, she was both.
Things changed for her when she met a moody, sulky boy. He worked as a customer satisfaction expert. That was the title the HR department, of the company where he worked, decided would inspire him to aspire to be; he didn’t.
He was a writer too. Though while she typed away during sleepless nights, he wrote poetry during the day — on the company dime.
He was writing verses on the window of the train, in permanent marker, totally engrossed in the lines. He didn’t notice that he was being watched. She fell in love with him, at first read; on first sight. That night, she went home and wrote him a letter…
The next night, on the subway, she slipped him the letter before she exited the train. The next after that, he handed her a folded sheet of paper. There was a poem about a lazy monster and a lonely bug. There was also a doodle of said monster and bug having a tea party.
This exchange of letters became a nightly affair. Except for nights that one of them didn’t go into work. Letters became poems. Poems became stories. Stories became series. Series may have well been novels. That’s how many words passed between them. Each time he responded, she felt her literary confidence swell. If he enjoyed her writing so much, it must be good, because he was the best writer she had ever met.
Time passed. She wrote him every day, but his letters slowly diminished in frequency. Then, in length. Finally, in enthusiasm. Often, his new letters seemed a bit random. She began to suspect that he wasn’t actually reading her at all.
Finding, with his slowed response time, she still had so much she wanted to share… she channeled the focus she learned, from writing to him, into finishing a book of short stories that she decided to self publish. When she received the first physical copy of her book, she wrote him a last letter, on the inside cover of the book…
She gifted it to him, with a sad little smile, before she said “goodbye.” That was the last time he saw her.
That girl is dead now. There’s nothing that could have prevented her death.
The boy, if he bothered to read her, knew all the how’s and why’s.
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- midnightvalkyrie said: Absolutely Beautiful!
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