Love Letter

P.S....

April 15th 04.30am.......

Hi again.

It's me.

Sorry.

Can't sleep.

I'm not sure. I'll send this, but we'll see.

The therapist was a big mistake.  Huge.  Enormous. Biggest ever in the history of stupid moves.

I feel so much worse. And do you know why? He's asked me to face reality in every aspect of my life. Every aspect. 

Don't worry. I didn't mention you specifically. I just said I was writing to someone. He laughed. Actually laughed Tom. What kind of professional is he? He tried to say he thought I was joking. That no one writes letters anymore. But I know. I know he was laughing at me.

At us.  You and me. The you and me that actually doesn't - and will never - exist.

It's made me wonder if I'm wasting your time so I can hide from the truth.

That I'm going to die alone. 

Jesus, that was brutal. Funny though, feel better for writing it down.

I am going to die. I am going.....

Shit Tom.......

She put the pen on the bedside table, folding the paper in two. Lying back on the pillows, tears slipped silently down her cheeks.

As the dawn broke, she looked out of the window. It was going to be a beautiful day. How many more she would see was another story. She could only hope and pray.

Getting stiffly out of bed, she put on a pair of joggers and a hoodie. Slipping her feet into her trainers, she picked up the note, now housed in an envelope spattered with yet more tears.  It had crossed her mind not to send it. It crossed her mind to actually burn it. But she didn't.

Instead, she walked to the post box, and before she had a chance to change her mind, she posted it.

As she walked home, the tears fell.  Maybe this was a fitting end to something that had never really started in the first place. 

When Luke placed two envelopes on Tom's desk a couple of days later, he was unsettled. Not because there were two. In fact, Alison's letters seemed to have done Tom the world of good. No, his disquiet was because one, the one postmarked Sunday, appeared to have been out in the rain.

Rain in a post box? He knew that was impossible. There was only one real explanation, and it didn't bear thinking about.

Poor Alison.

Poor Tom.