The Waiting Game

The Seventh Letter

Thirty-six days.

It felt like a lifetime.

It was raining today with such a fury that there was nothing but the storm’s winds moving outside. The trees were bending to the wind’s strength and the thunder rumbled the windows. The rain pounded on the roof and the lightning lit up the sky.

I hadn’t even bothered getting out of bed. It didn’t even feel worth it.

My mother delivered the letter to my room, her hair wet from her run up and down the driveway to receive the mail, and I knew by the way her eyes lingered on it that she was curious. I couldn’t blame her—a blue envelope, with only my name and address with a stamp on it, no return address, delivered on a rainy day. There was something strange about the situation; she knew I had been going here and there and to places that reminded me of him, but she could never know that he was the one that sent me those places. Even though she was looking at it with suspicion now, I knew she wouldn’t recognize the handwriting.

She lingered in the doorway of my room, looking at me. I glanced up from the rerun of Forensic Files, wondering why she was still standing there, and she was grimacing. When our eyes locked, she sighed.

“I know you don’t want me to ask this,” she said slowly, cautiously. “But how are you feeling?”

The question was simple, so simple that I easily could have lied and told her that I was okay. But this time I thought about the question. Was I okay? How was I feeling? I still felt the dull emptiness inside of my chest but it was becoming easier to breathe slowly but surely with every passing day, even if it was marginal and would take so long to finally disappear, if it ever did.

His errands for me were usually pretty fulfilling and left me with a little bit of hope in my chest. After I had talked with Jordan we had walked around the city of St. Augustine, talking and chatting and just being the kind of friends we had always kind of been all along. We laughed a couple of times and for a moment I had finally felt happy. But eventually I had to leave, and I saw him waving to me in my rearview mirror.

I had told him that I didn’t know if I would be coming back. He told me that he would understand.

I hadn’t seen Devon in over a week but I wasn’t bothered by it—I needed a break from him, if a small one, just to understand that allowing myself to trust him was going to be a dangerous gamble with what was left of me. I didn’t want to see Devon today and I prayed that this new letter was going to steer me clear of him.

Through all of this, I was rebuilding myself, becoming a little more human. But what was I feeling?

Anger at myself for not being able to save him.

Pain because he was gone.

Empty because of the void he left in my heart.

Hopeful because I could finally smile.

Fear of forgetting the littlest things about him.

Terror. I couldn’t remember the sound of his voice.

Relief of knowing the color of his eyes.

Wishful because I might one day get better.

Hateful because that might mean I will want to forget.

I sighed. Sometimes, even the simplest of questions are way too complicated for their own good.

“I’m going to be okay,” I told my mom in a soft voice, hoping that she couldn’t hear the rough pain in the undertone. She nodded slowly, something flickering through her eyes, but my long silence must have made her curious because she didn’t turn to leave. She leaned against the doorframe, watching me.