Somewhere in your neighbourhood, there was a small house. Small, but warm-looking. The roof terracotta and the walls painted bricks, the glass door and windows framed by wood painted in the same tone of colours – all of the simplicity placed right in the middle of a green lawn without any fence.
Inside the house there were a living room, two bedrooms, and two bathrooms. The whole house usually went dark after around 10 PM. All rooms except one bedroom. In that room there was still a laptop screen illuminated in the dimmed room with ten fingers hovering above the keyboard – one kept hitting the backspace button furiously.
Across the screen, the cursor blinked on an empty text document as if screaming for something – anything – to be input. About a minute later, some words appeared. Then some more. It looked like a letter, because the first words are “Dear X”.
You became curious. Dare you look closer?
Of course you do. Thus, you began reading.
How are you? Do I need to ask? It’s only a week since I last saw you. We’re still living in the same town. Like you often say – it’s nonsense.
This is a letter that you will never read. If you did somehow, then it means I’m already dead. Or some madman stole my laptop. Or something. But you wouldn’t read it while I’m alive. So there.
This is obviously far from what people expect to read when they see the word “I” and “you”, and a letter instead of a name.
They will think I’m a secret admirer, and they will think this is a love letter.
They will probably think I’m a cute little girl.
But let them guess.
Let them imagine.
Let them live their beautiful worlds.
They don’t need to know the ones that aren’t.
It did look like it.
So you continued reading.
Actually I don’t know what to write. I don’t know why I’m writing this anyway. I don’t even know why it’s for you of all people.
I hated you.
You made it easy –
With your words,
Your impossible expectations,
Your uncompromising principles…
Basically all of you.
At that point, I’ve had enough.
I wanted to cry. I really did. Either I was too proud or my tears had run dry, I ended up locking myself in my room for two days. During that time, I had so many panic attacks I’ve lost count. There was a lump in my throat that refused to leave as if trying to choke me. The shortness of breath went from unbearable to murderous. Stupidly thinking it was a heart attack, I wished to just die on the spot just so I could haunt you later.
You shivered, unconsciously taking a step back.
What is this all about?
It changed from what you thought was some kind of a love letter into some kind of… voodoo wanna-be letter.
What exactly did this X person do to the writer-in-the-dark?
But I survived.
Told myself there was so much more than what you did to me. You might not even remember what it was, leave alone how much it hurt. I didn’t expect you to. Being unattached and impersonal was your main policies, isn’t it?
I didn’t want anything to do with you anymore.
So when they let me go, I was relieved.
I was glad not having to even see you anymore.
Then they let me go.
That was when I stopped hating you.
You were right.
This was a sappy one.
You frowned, disappointed at the predicted ending.
However… since there was little left, you finished up, the weird letter leaving you sighing in the end.
I was at peace.
And I have been up until now.
So please, let me be.
Don’t step back in.
Don’t give me that attitude again.
Don’t let me argue about whatever crazy ideas of yours.
Don’t let me go back to the phase where all I have in mind was you, even when the last moment was filled with pure, childish hatred.
Or maybe not,
Right after you finished reading, the laptop was shut closed without any precedent movement. You blinked as the whole room went dark, speechless as you wonder what would happen to the writer if X showed up in the writer’s life anyway sometime in the future.
But then you decided it’s none of your business.
Then you left, this particular letter forgotten – up until you see an open laptop in front of you, and someone else typing up something else.
You will always remember this letter, and the person writing it.
Because that was when you realise,
that X, or even the writer in the dark, could have been you.