Seven Letters

It's a cloudless night. One can say it's the perfect night for stargazing. With millions of beautiful, bright stars like diamonds scattered onto black cavas, with the cool illumination of the moon, and the warm summer night breeze, it's a perfect, perfect night sky. And oh, shooting stars! Should I make a wish?

Hell no.

Any well-educated, proper-headed person knows they're just meteors. You're basically wishing on a rock. Pathetic. These people could use some Science lessons.

Realizing how much time I've wasted "stargazing", I quickly grab my coat off the park bench and start walking home. Gods, I'm such an idiot! I've still got lots of documents to sign, and I wasted ten precious minutes looking up at that one hell of a messy universe, I scold silently at myself.

"Oh, Cindy," I murmur to myself, realizing my other documents were with her. Such a Dory-minded wight.

Half a block away from my home, I hear footsteps behind me. I turn and see nothing. I continue to walk—keeping up the pace and I hear it again, as if keeping up with me as well. I turn and there was still no one. I finally reach my home's front door. My hands are trembling. I reach for my keys in my coat's pocket, fish it out and fumble with the lock. The lock clicks, and with a final look behind me, I see a silhouette in the shadows of the bushes.

I lock the door behind me, draw in the curtains, and make sure every window's closed. There's definitely no time for me to get distracted with this encounter; I have loads of work to do.

Halfway through my paperworks, I hear my mail bell. A mail, this late at night? And on a Sunday? Someone's got their prank switches on, and I am absolutely not liking it. 

I head for the door and see a lilac envelope in my mailbox. Cold breeze meets me as I open my door. I look around; there's nobody. Closing the door, I take a good look at the envelope. Huh, no return address, I thought. I flip the envelope and there was a huge "I" on it. It doesn't make sense, and I don't care, so I'm going back to my work.

Hours later, I finally find myself stashing away the last document. I look at myself at the mirror and rub both my eyes. Damn, I look messed up. But still pretty.

Turning towards my bedroom, I notice the lilac envelope on my coffee table. I get curious of what it might contain, being delivered at nine in the evening, and on a Sunday. I am extremely weirded and creeped out. There might just be some psychopath right outside my house, waiting for a good chance to slit my throat. I wouldn't really be surprised if one of my employees is behind this. Or anyone I've ever come across the street and scolded or raised an eyebrow at. Apparently, I'm the boss everyone despises. 

I tear the envelope open, and find a tri-folded paper inside. I unfold it, and I'm holding a full-page, handwritten letter. Each stroke of the letters written in cursive looks uncanningly familiar. 

It looks like my handwriting.

I read through the letter, and suddenly, I feel it getting more and more heavy in my hands.

The next day at work, I see another lilac envelope on top of my desk. It has a huge "M" on its back. 

"Cindy," I call for my assistant through the intercom. 

"Madame," she says, entering my office, but I don't make an effort to offer her a glance.

"When you see a letter like this on my desk in the morning," I say, holding the envelope up in my left hand, and continuing to read through the papers with my right, still not looking up at her, "put it in my drawer immediately; I don't want to see it, otherwise, you better take a look at the back of newspapers."

"Y-yes, madame." 

I leave work early today and phoned Sam to meet me at the bar. I really need to get that letter off my head. A good drink might just do the trick. And it should. Must.

While waiting for Sam, I order a glass of champagne, and a man sits beside me. His electric blue eyes is what catches my attention. Even in the dim lighting of the bar, it is still startling—like the deep blue of a cloudless dusk, where the light fades to dark.

"On me." The man says, as the bartender hands me my drink.

"No, thank you. I don't accept anything from anyone most especially... men," I spit the last word as if it's poison. "I own a company, got millions under my name, so it wouldn't cost me a bit for a cheap glass of champagne."

I take my glass, give the man a sardonic smile, and walk off towards the couches. 

I don't trust boys. Nor men. The male category in general. They all like to go off and play with people's feelings. They hurt. They make you feel worthless, unloved, unappreciated, unimportant, like shit. Once they get what they want from you, they leave. And never come back. See, that's what boys do. All of them.

A few minutes later, Sam arrives. She orders a bottle of wine and settles next to me on the couch.

"You, calling me on a Monday afternoon, meeting at a bar, and having that scowl on your face, means something's definitely wrong," she pauses a beat, and lets out a sigh. "Spill."

I fill her in all the events last night: the stalker, and the letter. The one from this morning as well.

"Oh, honey. I am in no position to tell you what to do, but, I think the best thing now is to forgive him. Talk to him, give it a shot. After all, he's already made an effort to reach out to you."

"Sam, it's not as easy as that. You, of all people, know that. The pain—it's emblazoned in my life, and I couldn't just take him back like that. He was the very first man to ever break my heart. And I'm not going to go through the same pain again."

I take a shot in one swing. And another. Then another. The world is hazy, and I don't care. Not now, not ever.

Five days have already passed after the night at the bar. The past few days sped by in a blur. Not much happened, just the normal office works.

I enter my office and find another lilac envelope. I pick it up, turn it over, and see a huge "Y" at the back. I open one of my drawers and pulled out the rest of the envelopes. There are six in total. Actually, seven; the first one's at home. 

I take a look at the envelopes in front of me. They form a word, I realize. I arrange them and have the word "SORRY". There's an extra "M", and an "I" at home, making it a phrase: I'M SORRY.

Somebody knocks on my door. I put the envelopes away, and call for the person to enter. I straighten my body, and busy myself with the papers on my table.

"What can I do for you?" I say, and lift my head to see the person.

What the hell.

"What are you doing here?" I stand and face him, eyes glaring hard. "You're the last person I ever want to see. Get out of my office, get out of my building!"

Hurt is visible in his eyes. "I-I just want to talk to you. See, I've been trying to reach out to you. I followed you home, thinking of approaching you, but I didn't know how. That's why I just left the letter. Stella, I'm sorry," he inches closer to me, "for the times I wasn't there for you—"

"The times," I cut him off, tears starting to muster in my eyes, "you weren't there for me? It's my entire life! Twenty-eight years! Do you know how long that is? Long enough for me to be able to finish my studies, work hard, and build my own empire. Were you there? No."

Tears start cascading down my cheeks in unbelievable speed. I hate being this vulnerable. I'm known to be this strong, strict, and independent woman. But now, I just shatter to a gazillion pieces, as fragile as ever.

"I didn't need you. I don't need you. I'm successful, and I did it without you. I hate you. I despise you. I loathe you. You hurt me and mom. You're the very first person to break my heart, and that's probably why I don't trust people. Because of you." the words come out of my mouth easily. I can't stop myself. After all, it's everything I ever wanted to do. 

"Stella, I'm really sorry, I—"

"Get out," tears won't stop coming, and I really hate it. "Get out, now!" 

He turns away, and out the door.

It's eight in the evening, and I head to the park to have some clean air. Tears once again find their way out the moment I sit on a bench. The pain is profound, and no matter how strong I might look to people, I know to myself that I'm not.

Seeing my dad, all the anger turned to pain and longing. Behind the curtain of rage and hatred I choose to show him is a play of everything I would have loved doing, had I grown up with him by my side. 

And I realize, maybe it's not too late. After all, this bitch of a boss has a heart, no matter how small and stubborn, that can at least slowly forgive. Maybe after venting most of the pain out, I'm slowly becoming a person rather than a human-bodied fireball.

Taking in the tranquility and solace that the night provides, I sigh. I take a look at the dark sky, with millions of diamonds scattered against it. 

Someday, I know, I can forgive, and let go.