She sits at the small wooden desk in the corner of her apartment. A blank sheet of paper stares back at her.
She writes: I miss you.
Then crosses it out.”
She tries again: It’s been a long time.
No, too distant.
She stares at the ceiling, exhaling slowly. Who decided that letters had to start with greetings? Who decided that words had to explain things clearly?
She picks up the pen again and writes in the middle of the page:
Yesterday, I saw someone who looked like you. For a moment, I thought—
She stops.
Too sentimental.
She turns the paper over and begins again. This time, she doesn’t think about what makes sense.
The bridge sways when you’re not looking. The house still breathes. I don’t remember if I left the light on, but I’m leaving this note for someone, maybe for you, maybe for me.
She puts the pen down. She doesn’t sign her name.