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letters have been slowing down over the past couple of years, after all. I
didn’t mind, because I also got busier in school, but still…
Misha never wrote me as much as I wrote him. I’d never really thought
about that until now.
I snatch the letter out of the mailbox, crumple it up in my fists, and toss
it on top of the pile in the garbage can. Screw him.
I charge back toward my Jeep, my heart starting to race as the fresh dew
on the grass wets my feet through my sandals.
But then I stop, feeling a wave of loss wash over me. No. It’s not
pathetic. Misha wouldn’t want me to stop writing him. He made me
promise. I need you, you know that, right? he’d said. Tell me we’ll always
have this. Tell me you won’t stop. That was in one of his rare letters where I
got a glimpse of everything he keeps hidden. He’d seemed afraid and
vulnerable, and so I promised him. Why would I ever stop? I never want to
lose him.
Misha.
I swing around and jog back to the garbage can, digging the crumpled
envelope out and straightening it again. I flatten it as much as I can and
stick it back in the mailbox, shutting the lid.
Without giving myself time to dwell on it, I hop in my car and drive to
school. It’s almost May, and even though it’s a bit chilly, I brave it in my
shorts and thin blouse, knowing the afternoon will be warmer. With ten
minutes to spare, I park in the lot, seeing crowds of students milling about
as I walk up the sidewalk to the front entrance.
Music plays from phones, people text, and I feel an arm snake around
me, a familiar scent hitting my nose. Ten wears Jean Paul Gaultier cologne
every day, and I love it. It makes my stomach somersault.
“What’s this,” he asks, lifting up my right hand.