The Person From The Future

A Blue envelope

I read the letter six days after they had thrown it in the letterbox. It had laid unopened on the doormat, decorated with a stamp and all. There had even been a return address written on the back, in case someone were to either send the letter back, or send a letter of their own.

The letter had been short, not even ten sentences long. It didn't have to be long. I had read it once, twice, put it down somewhere. Then, half an hour later, I read it again. I never got letters, apart from the few Christmas cards we got at our family home. Those weren't meant just for me. But this one was.

I had forgotten that I had even gotten the letter when I saw it laying on the doormat. Confused that there was even a letter, I had went to pick it up. I turned it over to see if it was delivered to the wrong address, but it clearly read mine. I tried to remember when someone could have delivered it, I thought about when the mail carrier did their round through the neighborhood.

That was when I recalled them holding up the envelope. How they stood with their arm stretched upwards. An expression that said: sorry, I didn't mean to make you feel bad. After they had seen the look on my face when I had opened the curtains.

When they had left and I had closed the curtains, I had dragged myself into the bed once more. Spending the next two days sleeping in a with static filled and dimly lit room. Taking pills every so often to try and lessen the throbbing and pounding that I felt in my head.
The nausea caused regular trips to the bathroom which just kept draining more and more energy. Eventually, I just stayed in bed. Living off of muesli bars and water until I felt good enough to make the trip down to the kitchen to feed myself with actual food.

When the headaches had subsided, I went around the house, getting rid of trash, doing some cleaning and getting the daily papers. It was then that I had found the letter.

Now there was a pen in my hand and a piece of paper, that took me way longer than what should have been necessary to find, on the table. I didn't write much, they hadn't written much either. So I didn't have to write much either, right?

The next day, Saturday, the first of August, promptly at half past six, I had thrown the letter, stuck in a blue envelope, through the letterbox onto the path that led to my front door. I had rushed back upstairs, sat in my desk chair and looked eagerly out of the window, eyes glued to the pavement across the street.

There they walked once again holding that red bicycle.

I stood up when they turned around and looked up to my window.

They waved.

I waved.

They smiled.

I pointed down, down towards where I hoped was my front door.

They furrowed their eyebrows, looking confused as they raised their shoulder, implying a clear "What?".

Once more, I pointed down, more eagerly than before.

They crossed the road, walked to the front door, out of sight, came back and held up an envelope, a blue envelope.

I nodded with a smile. They had found it.

They smiled back, crossed the road once more and continued delivering the mail, all while they held that blue envelope in their hand.

When they walked out of the sight that the frame my window showed me, a breath I didn't know I had kept in left my lips. I slid down into the chair practically deflating. I had sent a letter for the first time.