So here goes my second attempt at clichéd stories.
The writer sits at her desk, well, writing. Or trying to, at the very least. She's been meaning to complete this article for a while now, but, at the moment, she can't seem to focus on anything at all. She rises from her chair and paces around the room and decides to go for a walk. She walks to her little living room, puts on her coat, wraps the scarf her ex boyfriend gave her last Christmas around her, sighs at the thought of said ex boyfriend, puts on her boots and walks out of her apartment. She walks down the rickety steps, bids good evening to her downstairs neighbour who just entered the building from some last minute Christmas shopping and starts walking towards the little park near her apartment complex. She was whistling to herself, thinking about the upcoming Christmas party at her office, when suddenly she steps on something and hears a loud 'crunch'. She peers down and spots the offending object. It is a crumpled up sheet of paper. She picks it up and attempts to smooth it out. Its a letter. Addressed to a 'Jake', curiosity overcame the writer and she sits down on a bench nearby and starts to read the letter. As soon as she started, guilt seeped into her pores like the light snow which started falling. 'This letter seems private. Its obviously meant for the eyes of this Jake person, how can I read this? Im invading someone's privacy!' This internal struggle went on for almost half an hour but the growing suspense won out and she read the letter. It went,
'Jake,
I don't know what to say. I don't know how to persuade you. I don't know how to express what I feel when I'm in front of you. So, I decided to write this letter.
I've been wrought with fear, anxiety, sadness, pain. Pain over losing you. Your love. Didn't you say you love me? Didn't you tell me you wouldn't go back?
She came back. I haven't seen you since. I haven't heard from you. You said you needed your space, but its been a month. What am I to think?
I feel like I've lost you. I feel it in every bone in my body.
I haven't cried. I'm too numb to cry.
I waited at our spot everyday, until today. Today was the last day I waited.
I regret everything I haven't said to you. I regret not saying 'I love you' when you did. I regret not telling you how I feel about you everyday. I regret not opening up to you.
I wish you knew. You wouldn't have left me then, would you?
But I don't blame you. How were you to know? You tried your best to relieve me of my loneliness, my fears, me reservations. You tried to understand. But I didn't let you, did I?
And now.... you've left.
For the first week, I stayed with the one person I could tolerate other than you. I know you hate him, but he is my best friend. But after a while, I left. Even he couldn't do anything to save me.
I put the letter under our little rock or 'Brody' , that stupid name you gave it.
I'll be waiting at the cafe next to Smith's tomorrow at 6.30. I know you won't find this, but a girl can hope, can't she?
So Pick me. Choose Me. Love ME.
Because, I love you.
June.'
The letter was dated the day before that fateful day. It was 6.15. The writer had to see what happened. She ran towards the cafe.
The writer sits at her desk, well, writing. Or trying to, at the very least. She's been meaning to complete this article for a while now, but, at the moment, she can't seem to focus on anything at all. She rises from her chair and paces around the room and decides to go for a walk. She walks to her little living room, puts on her coat, wraps the scarf her ex boyfriend gave her last Christmas around her, sighs at the thought of said ex boyfriend, puts on her boots and walks out of her apartment. She walks down the rickety steps, bids good evening to her downstairs neighbour who just entered the building from some last minute Christmas shopping and starts walking towards the little park near her apartment complex. She was whistling to herself, thinking about the upcoming Christmas party at her office, when suddenly she steps on something and hears a loud 'crunch'. She peers down and spots the offending object. It is a crumpled up sheet of paper. She picks it up and attempts to smooth it out. Its a letter. Addressed to a 'Jake', curiosity overcame the writer and she sits down on a bench nearby and starts to read the letter. As soon as she started, guilt seeped into her pores like the light snow which started falling. 'This letter seems private. Its obviously meant for the eyes of this Jake person, how can I read this? Im invading someone's privacy!' This internal struggle went on for almost half an hour but the growing suspense won out and she read the letter. It went,
'Jake,
I don't know what to say. I don't know how to persuade you. I don't know how to express what I feel when I'm in front of you. So, I decided to write this letter.
I've been wrought with fear, anxiety, sadness, pain. Pain over losing you. Your love. Didn't you say you love me? Didn't you tell me you wouldn't go back?
She came back. I haven't seen you since. I haven't heard from you. You said you needed your space, but its been a month. What am I to think?
I feel like I've lost you. I feel it in every bone in my body.
I haven't cried. I'm too numb to cry.
I waited at our spot everyday, until today. Today was the last day I waited.
I regret everything I haven't said to you. I regret not saying 'I love you' when you did. I regret not telling you how I feel about you everyday. I regret not opening up to you.
I wish you knew. You wouldn't have left me then, would you?
But I don't blame you. How were you to know? You tried your best to relieve me of my loneliness, my fears, me reservations. You tried to understand. But I didn't let you, did I?
And now.... you've left.
For the first week, I stayed with the one person I could tolerate other than you. I know you hate him, but he is my best friend. But after a while, I left. Even he couldn't do anything to save me.
I put the letter under our little rock or 'Brody' , that stupid name you gave it.
I'll be waiting at the cafe next to Smith's tomorrow at 6.30. I know you won't find this, but a girl can hope, can't she?
So Pick me. Choose Me. Love ME.
Because, I love you.
June.'
The letter was dated the day before that fateful day. It was 6.15. The writer had to see what happened. She ran towards the cafe.
No comments:
Post a Comment