Letters

You know, I can still remember the first time that we kissed.

The pen hadn’t yet completed the last word before the page was ripped from the spine of the journal and crumpled.  She leaned back in her desk chair and tossed the paper into the basket; the imperfect ball circling its rim before sliding inside.  She sat back and placed the pen to paper again.

I hope you know that all I’ve ever wanted was for you to be happy.

Again the page was torn from its home and transformed into a paper ball.  She threw the ball over her shoulder, unconcerned this time with where it fell.

Normally her writing wouldn’t have been a problem.  She had written him hundreds of letters in the past, each one conveying the exact thought and emotion that she had been overcome with at the time.  Tonight, however, the words weren’t coming to her - -at least not the appropriate words. 

Her mind had become overwhelmed with concerns about what had come to light in the previous days and yet she was unable to find anything in her vocabulary that would get her concerns across without coming off… bitchy?

She groaned and placed her hands over her face.  Why was this letter coming off so difficult?  She had written an entire novel dedicated to him and tonight she couldn’t muster 500 words that expressed how she felt?  Pathetic! What had happened to the girl who had been able to be tell him what was on her mind no matter how horrible the news had been?

She got her heart broken.

No. 

No, her mind argued.  Her heart hadn’t been broken.  It hadn’t been broken by him in years.  They had been friends, nothing more in the time that had followed that November day.

Now that’s a lie.

The two conflicting entities had finally come to agreement after all this time. 

It was a lie.  A lie that she had been able to convince herself as a truth for the longest time until one fateful winter morning when everything had crumbled down around her.  It was something that she had not been able to tell him then, and it was something that she surely would still be unable to tell him now. 

She closed her eyes, trying to regain control of her breathing after the flow of memories from that day.  And with her head and heart finally in unison for the first time in nearly three years, she picked up her pen once more and let the ink soak into the paper.