Romans & histoires I Wrote To You Everyday For A Year

BRANDON'S POINT OF VIEW After typing the last document and saving it, I checked to see if there was any news from Alexis, feeling sad when there were no notifications from her. I had been sending her emails every week for a year, but she never replied. I didn't even know if she was okay or not. She didn't know how much I loved her, and I couldn't help but worry about her. Closing my eyes, I remembered how she used to make breakfast for me so innocently, without a hint of malice.

Mary, I don't know if you'll ever read this. I don't know if you're even alive. I haven't heard from you in years, and I've stopped expecting to. But I keep writing, because I can't stop hoping. I can't stop believing that someday you'll reach back.

“Your turn.” She exhaled, hugging herself against the wind. “I used to write letters to my mom,” she said quietly. “Every year on her birthday. I mailed them to her last known address.” I turned back to her, surprised. “She never replied,” she added. “Not once. But I kept writing.” There was no sarcasm this time. No wit. Just silence and the sound of the ocean crashing far below. I felt something unfamiliar stir in my chest, pity, maybe, or recognition. “And when did you stop?” I asked.

He started to cry. Back then, we did not have much money, but we had each other. Every evening, after a long day's work, he would come home to find a hot meal waiting for him in our tiny apartment. I kept that up for seven years. However, those days were gone now. I had written him over a thousand love letters, and every single word was a piece of my heart, showing just how much I loved him. It must have been a really big letdown that made me, a woman who had once loved him so deeply, decide to walk away for good.

Nothing more, nothing less. Later that night, a tiny lit-up lamp illuminated the room as I solemnly started reading the letters in chronological order. Every piece of the letter has a date. There were hundreds of them. If Joshua wrote them on a daily basis, it simply means that he's been writing these letters for almost a year now. Or more than that since there will still be a few bottles at the junkshop. As expected about those letters, he keeps writing about his experiences but most of them were disastrous, crying outs, and the feeling that he wanted to disappear, similar to the letter I've read last night.

I turned to him and he looked at me with a sad eyes "This." I showed him the ring "I didn't even know why I wear it for the last 2 years, I'm freaking crazy. You wrote a bullshit letter and now you're here. Showing yourself here after 2 years, not bothering to call or come home." I bursted and tears came out continously

"Is it?" That didn't come out the way intended but I nod. My eyes return to the sheet of paper in my hand, settle on the font in black ink. I would have loved it handwritten but the line at the top right corner shows he printed it from his email. The date on top tells me it is about a month old. I clear my throat to continue reading out loud and my voice breaks. "I miss you. Everyday." There is a fluttering in my chest like butterflies are rousing from their nap, I don't look to him when I murmur, "Then why didn't you call or text me?"

Except the occasional one where I would be able to sneak them past him, and then I would memorize that one too. I looked back down at the book, and then skipped ahead a few letter's until I got to a note he wrote. I was confused for a second before I remembered that he said he wrote stuff in here on a daily basis, basically stuff he could fit in the letter, or just little things he would jot down to remember for later. -Week 4, 1900 hours. Thought of Kota again today as some of the guy's joked around. It's only been 4 weeks since i've seen her and I miss her a lot, I don't know if I can go for 4 years.

" But I thought... " " I know what you thought CERC. That they weren't sent or anything but I was always there. From the first day. And when you didn't send me anything for two months I was so sad and desperate that you had probably left me, so my heart was broken every day I wasn't receiving a message from you. " " I'm sorry.. "

My fingers hovered over the keyboard while I typed and deleted the same words over and over again. Finally, I sent the truth. [I never got on the plane. I’m still here.] The message disappeared from the screen, and for the first time in thirteen years, the blue line between us no longer felt impossible to cross.