My slightly shaking hands were hovering over the keyboard. I couldn't bring myself to do anything. My mind was in a frazzled state; not being able to form a concrete thought ever since I saw that damned question mark on my screen.
But a single sound stopped that. I saw a number 1 on the Inbox tab. My breath hitched along with the multiple profanities coursing through my head.
I know for a fact that you can't undo what you've done, can't take back what you said or undo anything in general unless you're on your computer. You can undo that wrong typing on Word. You can undo that failed shape on Photoshop. You can undo that cell merge on Excel. You can undo that brush stroke on Paint. You can undo a whole lot of other things. How about the clicks I have become the sad victim of? I can't undo that. Nobody can. Not this time.
Despite the firm thoughts inside my head I said aloud: "I can fix this. I-I can fix this."
Not really.
I place my finger on the mouse pad and hurriedly click the small refresh button which in my haste managed to click it about five or eight times continuously. The message read in plain black letters:
Stop being such a btch. Didn't believe you for a second.
That message had me cursing. I was angry. Did he not just read the letters that had just been sent to him? How can it be possible to fake those? Those letters held every thought I had for the past month. No sugarcoats, no filter and I wrote them without holding anything back. That person basically insulted me.
But at the same time I was also relieved. Even if they did read those letters they didn't believe them for a second. At least that's what they said. I can't really tell if they were being honest or not and at the same time they can't tell if I'm being honest or not either.
Then came the feeling of terror. They've got a copy of all my innermost thoughts. They could publish it one day, maybe make a mockery out of it. Maybe to find out who actually wrote those when curiosity catches them that hey, maybe those weren't faux letters.
Maybe it will all be forgotten that an unknown address has sent such letters to the reader. It can't be unread or truly forgotten. One little thing can trigger something in their brain and the memory of reading those letters would be remembered.
Here comes the decision: what should I say or should I even say anything at all?
After much contemplation I finally send:
haha okay whatever.
Just went along with what they know.
After sending the message, I deleted our conversation which mainly consisted my letters. I felt bare; exposed.
I shut my laptop closed and prayed that the reader... Anon would not be brought up in my life anymore. I handled the situation the best that I could but there still is one issue to fix. I glared at my door. Who sent those damn letters.
I should really update more, I know. I will try my best though from now on :)
