I Wrote To You Everyday For A Year Novels & Stories

As soon as my hand touched one, I yawned loudly. ‘Mira, I don’t know if I should say Kaira. It’s been a year and I still miss you. Nobody bakes cookies and bread the way you do. I miss having you around. I don’t know how long I can hold on here without you. Don’t push me, you are testing me. You are who I want, I love you. I can’t believe I am writing this at 3 am. Kaira, don’t stay too long, I might lose it ‘.

At some point, I toed off my shoes and padded back and forth barefooted. My eyes fell on the clock and when I saw that it was now forty-minute past eight, I blew out an annoyed breath and dialed Killian's number again. I deserved some explanation. His phone rang this time but he didn't pick up and I listened as it went straight through to his voicemail. I knew our level of communication sucked but why wasn't he answering? "Killian." My voice broke when I tried to leave a voice message. I was appalled to realize tears were slipping from my eyes. Gosh, this wasn't the time to cry. "Can you call me back? I'm worried sick and it's past eight."

The timestamp showed these messages were sent three years ago, just two days before she went to prison. She scrolled past the old messages and typed a reply. [I'm here.] In less than thirty seconds, a new message popped up. [Royce, finally! Where have you been these last three years? Did you forget your password or something?] Jessie ignored the questions. [What do you want?] [Do you remember those three drafts you gave me three years ago?] [Of course. You never paid me.] [I wanted to, but you disappeared, and I couldn't reach you at all.]

I clicked on the message notifications and braced myself as I began to read his messages. ‘How could you?’ The first one was read. ‘You should have at least left a message or even woke me up because I was going crazy thinking you had disappeared into thin air.’ Okay, that one sent an arrow straight to my heart. I clicked the new message icon and began to compose a message. But I chickened out, and I couldn’t continue, dropping my phone. He was going to be fine. I tried to reassure myself. This wasn’t the first time it had happened. In fact, the last one lasted for four years; he could survive another month or two or even a year.

I never even thought that was possible. Even my parents used to ask me from time to time if I had heard from Sophia and I always said no. My mom always encouraged me to give her a call. But sud-denly it had been one month, then two, then three. By the time it got to a year. I just didn't know what to say. 'Hey Sophia, it's your best friend from college. Do you remember me?'

Her palms were slick with sweat, and she could barely hold the phone. She needed a moment to steady herself before she could keep reading. A long while later, she opened her eyes and looked back at the screen. By my third year away, I barely messaged her at all. The last message was only a few words long. "I'll give you exactly what you asked for." It had been sent the exact same day she left that comment on my RainDrop Fund campaign.

He searched my face, the gray light making his dark hair darker and his skin pale. I frowned, my brow crinkling and my lips tightening, righteous indignation swelling in my chest. I had been so angry at him for never writing for so long, I hadn't realized how much it had hurt. The idea that he thought he stopped because I had never written him was maddening. "I wrote you every day a month! I stopped writing because at the end of that month, the postman handed me back the entire stack of them with "UNDELIVERABLE" stamped on every one. I didn't have any other way to reach you because you never wrote me back." Dean's mouth opened, his eyes going wide, and he sat back in his seat. He slowly shoo

I frowned walking into my room, (my phone vibrates) "a text message!!" I opened it up reading through the context of the letter, "ahhh!! Scott Lakewood" I screamed out the minute I finished reading it, somehow he still affects me, even though it's been a year since we broke up or perhaps, he broke up with me.

I said. Whatever she was going to say next died in her throat. "I was ten years old," I said again. I needed it to land somewhere in her. I needed her to actually sit with it. "And you left. You didn't come back. You didn't call. You didn't send a single letter. I sat at the top of the stairs for a year waiting to hear the front door open." Her eyes were filling up fast now. "Your tears don't work on me," I told her. "They stopped working a long time ago."

"This rift between us is inevitable. Don't worry. I'll handle the treatment soon." "And the therapy sessions," he insisted. I agreed and ended the call, my eyes drifting to a spot on the bookshelf. It was the small, dusty box I'd gifted Brett before my departure five years ago. It held letters I'd penned and a blank diary for him to fill. I could still recall him holding me close, his tone sulky. "One entry per day for a whole year?" "Too hard?" I'd teased, tilting my head. He'd chuckled, burying his face in my hair. "Not really. I'm just worried that a diary simply can't contain all the love and longing I have for you."