In the Envelope

    There was something so final about the sealing of an envelope, pressing down the flaps just so. The address had been written beforehand, brown eyes darting between the glowing phone screen to where her hand waited, pen at the ready. 

    Check.

    Double check. 

    It would be too much, having this letter sent back from one simple spelling error, one wrong number, one pen running out of ink. 

    The card was a simple one, a painted image of running water. Perhaps a stream, creak, river. Anne thought it was more of a waterfall, leaving out its end and beginning. 

    Its beginning. Where was the beginning? What was there to write, after all this time? 

Her thoughts were chaotic, to say the least. 

    There had to be something. After all that time together, there had to be something. 

    Are you alright? could be taken so many different ways. I’ve missed you, a simple statement of truth. We were friends for five years, best friends, only friends, people who clung to each other despite, or perhaps because of depression, angry parents, pressure from societal expectations. Then the day of graduation, you were just gone. Did it happen? Did your family cross the line yet again, and you couldn’t take it anymore? Their blindness to the real you. Did they send you away; did you escape? What happened back then? Did I do anything wrong? I loved you, you know. I don’t know if I’ve ever loved anyone as much as I did you, back then. You saved me simply by being there, two depressed teens with somewhat parallel lives - strained families, college expectations, the push to date (or to not date) the boy next door. Understanding what the other was thinking and feeling without saying a word. It was enough to sit together on the stone steps at lunch, not being alone. To be honest, I am not sure what to write to you. I just know that for five years we were friends, then the next five years without you happened. I tried texting and calling you. Was that wrong? I hope I didn’t text too many times. How many is too many? After it really settled that you were gone, I stopped. That’s what friends do, right? Check on each other, worry, try to stay in touch. I was looking over a list of people on the city council, and saw your name. If this is another person than the one I knew, I am sorry for the confusion. Both our names are unusual. No one ever knew how to spell them. If I did something wrong in our last interaction, I apologize, though I can’t think of what it would be. I really can’t. We ran into each other in a bookstore, the week of graduation. Coincidence. Chatted a bit, then went on with our errands. 

    It had been hard to deal with his absence. Whenever Anne had thought about college, it was always with him. He would be there, just like in high school. After the first year, they would get an apartment and be roommates. He would figure out what he wanted to do, instead of giving his parent’s answer of ‘business school.’ She would figure out what she wanted, beyond the thought of ‘out of this town.’ 

    Maybe he had just done it first. They both had wanted to escape the town, the preconceived notions, the expectations. 

    So many expectations. 

    It had taken a while to realize that their classmates had thought they were dating. It was such a strange thought, as both were quite firmly uninterested in the other. 

    Perhaps that was the reason. It was completely platonic on both sides, but perhaps he had misunderstood by the end. 

    What can a letter really say? There is only so much paper that can fit into an envelope, yet writing too much after such a long time might be a bit off putting. Even if there was no other way of communication except for a disconnected phone for five years. 

    Before coming across the council list, Anne had not thought of him much. Just during little things. The latest was finally moving out of the dorm into an apartment of her own. On the first night, she had been wondering how to arrange a desk in the extra room when the thought hit that this could have been his room. They could have gone job hunting together, filled out grad school applications together, gotten coffee and teased him about his taste in men. 

    At the time, another possibility Anne had been avoiding made its presence known.

    That her friend may have killed himself. 

    It was something both had thought of, back then. Off and on. 

    The depression, of course. It gave them one of many connections. 

    The thing that both had, but was never named. 

    Having a friend could make all the difference in the world. 

    Of course, both had families to return to at the end of the day. 

    He didn’t talk about it much, but she still knew. It was his dad who was the worst. These often lead to the days of silence, of sitting on those stone steps, being near a person who just knew, who had at least an idea, a comparison of what you were going though. Counting down the days until high school ended and they could get away, get the hell out of this town. 

    She could see it eating away at him.

    On their second-to-last interaction, before the bookstore, he told her. He had stood up, expelled all the things held back for so long. At his family. His father. 

After he finished telling her, she did not know what to say. There was nothing to say, really. She had never done anything like that, though Anne had thought of it. The potential consequences were terrifying, though perhaps somewhat warped through intimidation and fear of her mother. Anne looked at him and knew, at this moment, a modified version of these fears was running though his head.    

Then he was gone. 

Then, suddenly, his name, glowing on the computer screen on the city council site, Anne freezing and forgetting her project. Thinking he’s alive he’s alive hes alive hesalive__he’s not dead_

And now, a week later. The card is carefully selected, cover image plain yet tasteful. The words are written, letter is composed, somehow. Address written, checked, double checked. Stamps are placed, one, two, extra. And return address, just in case. 

    She knows it may be a different person, both literally and figuratively. She knows its a business address, posted a year ago. An official business, where others may open personal mail, or even throw it away before it even reaches him. That he may open it, see the name, and throw it away. That he may not even open it. That he may not be there, and it is stuck in a file somewhere, to gather dust for years until a new secretary going through papers recycles it. That he may read it and be angry, wanting to forget those years. That the letter may never even reach its destination, lost in the system with other dead mail.

    This probably won’t change anything at all. There will likely be no return letter, no call out of the blue, no unexpected knock at the door. No hug, no meeting his boyfriend, no talking about the good times. 

    However.

    She takes this fragile, impossible chance, and drops it through the mail slot.