I Wrote To You Everyday For A Year Mga Nobela at Kwento

As I had just opened my mailbox, my heart skipped a beat when I received the notification of an email and I also started to tremble when I saw the sender's name. A month ago, Pao contacted me again. Hi Lary! Knowing you, I'm sure you'll read and ignore my message because you're mad at me. You are terribly angry with me. It's been 1 year since I left, 1 year since I wrote to you as promised. You're right when I left, I hid something from you and it's this something that has prevented me from getting back in touch with you all this time.

Shawn blew out a weighted breath, “I did.” I expected more from him. Anything more. Shawn was never one to be at a loss for words, but right now, the only thing he said was I did. It’s been five years since I sent that letter. Five years I wondered if he’d gotten it. And I told myself it wouldn’t matter if he did. But I hoped he didn’t, because I poured my heart into every word that went onto that page. Tears blurred the writing as I laid out a nine year long crush onto a single sheet of loose leaf paper.

And I don’t even have anyone to tell. What I do, instead, is sit at the little iron café table outside the building every day after class and order a glass of wine and write messages I don’t send. I’ve written seventeen of them. Most of them have been to my mother. Mom, you have to call me. Mom, I'm sorry. Mom, please. Mom, I’m all alone here. Mom, you can’t just pretend I don’t exist anymore. Obviously I can’t send them. They make me look pathetic.

that one up there is going to be my first and last I’m not sure if Nelson would be proud, but that was my best. The day went by so quickly. And I found myself refreshing my e-mails in every five to ten minutes. I’d write an article, and submit, then refresh my e-mails. I couldn’t believe I was waiting for a reply. I mean, why would I be waiting for a reply?

Dear Maya, I know you’re probably not going to read this letter and I understand if you don’t. I just want to check up on you and see how you’re doing. It’s been two months now and every day feels like too long without your presence. I really, really miss you, everything around me makes no sense with you. It’s almost like when you left you took my life along with you. But that’s okay because my life belongs to you.

The city moved around us, ordinary and indifferent and entirely ours. That evening after Isla was in bed I sat at the kitchen table with a cup of tea and my phone and opened the email thread that had started with four words at midnight and had become, over months of letters and texts and Tuesday mornings, something I would not have believed possible if someone had tried to describe it to me a year ago. I typed one line. One more chapter tomorrow. Are you ready? He replied in three minutes. I've been ready since the summit. I smiled at my phone in the quiet kitchen.

I watch her from afar as she watches it with a smile. Many things I have done for her in secret, and yet Sebastian claiming most of it coming from him. I have about twenty-five huge journals all in red covers that I have written in cursive everyday for the past two years and those consist of messages that I wrote for Thea every single day. Since writing it made me feel like we were still connected to each other though she’s just not reading it and not responding to any of those but it made me feel happy, in a way. It was sort of my own little distraction from feeling heartbroken. It felt like I was still talking to her when I write on those journals.

“I just never thought I would get the chance.” My heart clenched. “What is it?” He opened the box slowly. Inside were stacks of letters all sealed, neatly bundled with string. Some were written on old stationary, some on napkins, some even on the back of receipts. “I wrote you,” he said simply. “Every week. For years, whenever I had a thought I wanted to share with you, or whenever I missed you or randomly saw something that reminded me of you.” I blinked, my throat tightening. “Jake”

I’m so sorry. At this point, my hands started to shake. I reached back into the box and pulled out another one. And another. There were dozens of them. Hundreds. I began spreading them out on the table, my eyes scanning the dates. He had written one almost every single day for the last… fuck… the last two years. One letter from a year ago said: > I saw a doctor today who wore glasses just like yours. I almost called out your name in the middle of the street. I feel like I’m losing my mind, Grey. Please, just send a sign that you’re alive. I just want to see your face one time again.

"To my dearest mum, I wanted to write a speech but I didn't know how. So Instead,I wrote something even better. I'm gonna tell you how many times I've missed you since you left. I missed you on that day you were dragged out of the hospital. I missed you on the day ,you were put under the ground. I missed you on the days after. I missed you when I got a job in New York. I missed you when I went to New York. I missed you when--"