.

The old paper quietly rustles in the back pocket of her jeans. The sound is comforting by now, a steady way to keep her grounded. Something to keep her from lifting into the air and drifting aimlessly in the overwhelming cosmos. The universe is dark as much as it is filled with shapeless colors.

Her letter.

Words painted for her quiet soul.

The note that both damages and lifts her, embracing her past as she struggles to just be in the now, and to not fall out of her orbit again, a sweet weight that is both pain and bliss. She must have read it countless times, taking it out, unfolding it, straightening the paper, smoothing out the creases. Gently, with affection. Always with affection. Even if there were days that she would crumble it down, so close to ripping it apart, piece by piece, shred by shred. Like the day that she got it, left by her door. A small white envelope that meant goodbye. That also said I will find you when the day is right. I am never without you in my heart. Wait for me, because I am written only when you exist.

Every day that note is with her, keeping her grounded, even on a rainy day like this. She moves swiftly, trying not to sink in the rain, feeling restless. Out of place. A physical strain wraps around her skin, her muscles. Around those thoughts. She lifts her head trying to see more through those wet eyelashes, it’s hard but she looks, heartbeats rushing. Something has changed. She’s both nervous and waiting, with feet banging against the hard pavement, she reaches her house, staring at the door and then at the ground, a letter in a small creamy envelope, a bit soaked by the rain. She walks up to it, picking it up gently and she feels it. This time the letters won’t be the same. Her hands shake slightly as she taking it out, unfolding it, straightening the paper, smoothing out the creases. Gently, with affection. Always with affection.

And this time, it’s a hello.

She carefully folds the letter and puts it in her back pocket. On the left side to set the balance. On one side carrying a goodbye from the past and hello that is now. It’s already started.

.

In a normal, rural town the most fittingly normal woman lived, leading the most monotonous life one could ever imagine. She dressed normally, opting for jeans and a t-shirt nearly every day, and acted normally too, never doing anything out of what was considered to be ordinary. She had plain brown hair and a face one forgets the minute they look away, with the only feature even remotely interesting being her dark blue eyes. But even her eyes weren’t interesting enough to capture anyone’s attention longer than a few seconds, and the woman remained to be one of the most simple, plain people to exist.

However, the one thing that was different about her, her one oddity, was that she carried a small tote wherever she went, beat up and scuffed but there nonetheless. It was a simple leather bag, faded brown with dulled, metal buckles hanging over the fold-over top. It was very worn but clearly well-loved, for she carried it around no matter where she was going.

For the most part, the bag functioned as a normal purse, loyally carrying her wallet, keys, and an assortment of knick-knacks that one never actually puts in their bag, but they end up there nonetheless. But the bag had a purpose besides toting her things around, and that was to carry a letter, to protect it wherever the woman went.

The letter itself had a texture similar to the bag; rough with age and worn down around the edges. Slightly crinkled, the woman had kept the letter in her bag for as long as she could remember, and planned to keep it there for even longer. And keep it there she did, for years upon years until finally, the time was right to remove it.

The woman was at home when she finally took the letter out of the bag. It was the letter’s first breath of fresh air since she had written it herself, and it lay unassumingly on her desk as the woman bustled around it. She moved sluggishly, almost as if in a trance, dragging her chair away from the desk and out of her bedroom.

After a moment the woman returned, lovingly unfolding the piece of paper and smoothing it over the wooden surface of the desk. After a minute of staring at the letter, rereading it carefully, she moved to her closet and undressed, taking off her ratty jeans and bland t-shirt and replacing them with a beautiful black dress, elegantly crafted to fit the contours of her body. She slipped it on, and the ordinary woman became suddenly breathtaking, previously plain fair becoming the most memorable of all.

She sighed, taking one last glance at the letter before reaching under her bed to grab a long, thickly-woven piece of rope. She left the room with an air of certainty and determination, and did not return, not once.

All was quiet in the house for a brief, suspenseful moment before the sound of gagging filled the previously undisturbed silence. A bang echoed through the halls that startled the birds outside into flight, presumably caused by the tipping over of the chair the woman had dragged from the room minutes prior. There were horrible coughs and retches, heart-stopping wheezing gasps for air, before the house fell silent once more, plunging back into its ordinary state in its ordinary town.

-----

Three days later, and ambulance pulled up to the house, parking behind the police car that was already present at the scene. A body was carried away on a stretcher, black folds of fabric peeking out from underneath a white sheet. The police officer, sent to investigate the rest of the house, wandered into a bedroom, filled with nothing but simple bed and even simpler desk.

On the desk, was a letter. And on the letter, was one word.

Goodbye.

Every time I pass mom's house it's a shaky memory of the broken piece of paper in my left jean jacket pocket. Grandma died a couple of years ago. Around that time was when mom left. She never found out about Grandmas death. No one thought she was important enough to know. I would want to know if my mother died. Sure she's self-conceed, egotistical, and gready, but she's my mom. I think that's why I want to give the letter to her so bad. As for as she knows we're continuing our lifes without her. Our better lives. She thinks Grandma still eats breakfast in her rocking chair every morning on the back porch as the sun slowly starts to surround her world. She still thinks I secretly have my boyfriend Jerry come visit me every Saturday. She still thinks everything's normal and okay. She deserves to know, but part of me wants her to never know. I want her to rot in the unknowingness she surrounded herself in, but no one would know if mom was rotting away herself. Dead on the floor in her crummy kitchen or something. I wouldn't know, and I would hate that. She deserves to know, but anyone else deserves to keep it from her. I deserve to keep it from her.

(I tried)

The young man is standing silent and still, studying the green door in front of him. The number 417 hangs on a plaque in the middle of the apartment door just above the dark peep hole. He is holding a bouquet of flowers in his hand, but doesn’t move to knock with the other. He knows he has avoided this moment long enough. Too long. But all he does is stand and stare.

The elevator dings and a heavy, panting businesswoman strides out and passes the statue at apartment 417. “Good evening,” she huffs, and continues to her own apartment at the end of the hallway.

The young man musters his reply after the distant door closes and locks with a loud click. “Evening, ma’am.” He turns his head back to the door, lifts his hand out to reach for the knocker, but hesitates. His hand drops back to his side, defeated.

After a few moments, the young man reaches inside his coat and pulls out a blank envelope. He tucks the flowers under his arm so he can open the envelope to peek at the letter again. He has read it a hundred times already, but he has to peruse it once more. He flips the paper over so he can read the back and then returns it carefully into the envelope.

He is not sure he can believe what’s written in the letter, but that is why he is here at the door of her apartment, with flowers in his hand and frozen from fear. It’s going to be a long night.