letter

42 7 4
                                    

Vocabulary:

*Morosis: the stupidest of stupidities

*Abience: the strong urge to avoid something or someone

*Druxy: something whole on the outside, but rotten on the inside.

*Finifugal: hating endings; someone who tries to avoid or prolong the final moments of a story, relationship, or other journey.

*Scripturient: having a consuming passion to write.

***

She stared at the blank piece of paper placed in front of her, the pencil in between her fingers dancing back and forth as she thought hard about what she should write. She bit her lip, beginning to doubt if this was even a good idea.

Her eyebrows knitted together when she realized it really was a crazy idea. How was writing a letter any different from sending a text? It was absolute nonsense. Doing this would just give off the impression that she cared more than he did. After all, writing a letter, putting it in an envelope, writing out the address, and taking it to the post office was certainly much more complicated than just sending a simple virtual message.

Yet, she found the whole idea fascinating. The thought of him opening his mailbox just to find a letter from her inside was extremely amusing. I mean, who writes letters nowadays? Especially to an old lover.

All her friends thought this was just an incredible act of morosis, but she couldn't care less. She couldn't get that phone call out of her head. She had wanted to speak, to tell him all that was on her mind, but she just couldn't. Her tears welled up and her words got stuck in the huge knot that had, very involuntarily, formed in her throat.

Sure, she was still sure that abience was something that should remain in her when a situation involved him. She knew he had become a druxy person, but something about that phone call gave her hope. Maybe, just maybe, he had changed his ways. Or maybe she was just very finifugal.

Whatever it was, it filled her with a burning passion to write the letter.

Finally, after pondering on it for a little too long, she began sliding the pen across the white paper, the black ink finally giving it purpose.

Dear You,

Hi. I know what you're thinking. "Who may this be? Why are you writing this?" The answers are simple. Firstly, it's me. Second, because I was suddenly feeling very scripturient and I had a lot of things to say that my mouth does not allow me to cohere, therefore, I decided to let my hands to take over because they actually obey when my brain gives an order.

I'm not sure why you called the other night. In fact, I'm not even sure why you were thinking about me at all. Whatever the reason was, I'm sure I would've been able to hear it if it weren't because I decided to hang up. Sorry about that, by the way. You know phone calls aren't my forte. However, if you're still up for it, I'd like to finish what we started—

She stopped writing for a moment. Did that sound right? She let out a dry laugh at the irony of that last sentence. He had always been awful when it came to naturally understanding metaphors or analogies, but she wondered if he would see this one. "I'd like to finish what we started."  Would he take that the wrong way?

She didn't want him to think she wanted a relationship with him. All she was referring to was the phone call. But that sentence could say so many things, she thought maybe it'd be better left unsaid.

So she rewrote it.

However, if you're still up for it, I'd like to let you finish telling me whatever it is you needed to say.

I, quite frankly, just feel very impolite for having hung up on you like that. The guilt has just taken over me and you know I was raised better than that.

Greetings,

Me.

After reading it over and over again, she finally decided to put it in the envelope and take it to the postal office. It wasn't a great letter at all, but it was the best she could do when it came to him. It was hard putting her thoughts out there without giving too much away. And she was very aware of the fact that what she was doing was risky.

When she arrived at the small building, she hesitantly handed the white envelope to the old man working there, hoping he wouldn't notice how sweaty her hands were at that moment. Then she walked out.

MisconceptionsWhere stories live. Discover now