When the World Ends

Letters

On this day, she writes. She writes whenever she can, whenever we're sitting under a solid roof, because there aren't many chances for her to do so. Today, it's raining, and so she writes while we take shelter.

   What are you writing?

I've told you before, Keane, I'm not going to tell you.

   Why not? There's nobody to read it but you, then!

I told you before, Keane, that I'll let you read it in due time.

   But I am curious. The rain keeps on for hours more, and still, she writes. Finally, we give up on travel for tonight and sleep.

   Or, I pretend to sleep.

   When she's fallen asleep, and I hear the steady sound of her breathing, I slowly sit up. I crawl over to where she sleeps and pick up the small planner she has set beside her.

   I open the planner, but it's too dark to read anything that she's written. I wonder if I should light a match, but then decide that it's too risky, and besides, won't I be able to look at it another time?

   So I set the planner beside her, and I crawl back over to my pile of blankets, and I sleep.

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The next day, I awaken to the sound of ripping paper.

   I groggily open my eyes, and sit up. Looking around for the source of the sound, I see that she is pulling out pieces of paper from her planner.

   What are you doing?

I finished writing, Keane.

   So you're ripping it up?!

No.

   She holds up a bright blue, polka dot envelope. Then, she folds the six pieces of paper she had torn out into squares before placing them inside. Then, one more paper is torn out and folded, to then be placed inside the envelope with the others.

   She seals the envelope and hands it to me.

Put this in your bag, please, Keane.

   Why?

I need you to give it to Manuel. When you find him--when we get there.

   Why can't you?

You know I'm a klutz. I'll lose it, or drop it, or ruin it. Please, Keane?

   Alright. I will. But you have to give it to him yourself; I'll only carry it for you.

That's fine. Just don't forget about it, okay?

   I tell her okay and wonder how I could--it's a bright blue, in this gray world, with the name MANUEL written across the back of it. But I oblique and tuck the envelope into my bag.

   Anything for her.

   Anything for just one, small, sad smile, to help her become a little less broken.

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Now, I look through her planner, and see that she's written those same six pages over and over and over again. But the last page that she ripped out is nowhere to be found--its only copy remains in the sealed envelope I grip on my hand.