Blogging · Fiction · stories

In your last letter to me…

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Blank. Drawing a blank.

She would have laughed aloud, if that expression didn’t irritate her more, than not being able to write one solitary word, before tossing the paper in the air, or on the floor, or just crumpling it up in anger. “There! That’s it for me. I can’t take anymore!”

Writer’s  block. Lack of ideas. You name it, she suffered from it. If only….If only I  could take my pen in hand, and…

Suddenly that thought struck her. Take up the pen and….

“Dearest. The last letter that I wrote to you reflected the sorrow that I possessed at our last meeting, I didn’t mean to upset you, but…”

He did. She thought to herself. He did upset me, more than I had want to admit to myself. What was it though, he said? His words were jumbled in her head, as if someone had placed them into a jar, and had shaken them intensely. He told me, that…

“I only had told you, that the time was not right for us to be together. I’ve done a lot of soul-searching during the last few months, and I’ve come to the inescapable conclusion that…”

He had made the decision. He had decided. He had set the periods in their conversations, with the last one finishing up in an exclamation point. “How could the time not be right?” She asked herself. Was it due to his inability for closeness, or did he just need an excuse to return to the woman who had shared his bed, before me?

“we cannot continue as we are now, nor can we return to the “us” that existed before.  Call it karma, or bad timing, but whatever word helps you to accept this decision, I’d like you to”

Damn him! She yelled out. To no one. She laid the pen down and sobbed into her pillow. How could he decide for the both of us? How could he write it to me in his letter? How could I be so blind, as not to…?

Her right hand ached at the thought of continuing this farce. That must be where the writer’s block had come from, if only I

And with that she took the pen up in her left hand. Not being used to using the pen in that way, the letters tended to blur a bit, and not to resemble the others from the other hand.

“Dearest. The last letter that I wrote to you reflected the deep burning passions, that I have developed for you over these past, brief months. I never thought it possible, but our love has surpassed anything in my wildest dreams, and I couldn’t imagine a life without you, no matter what….”

She put the pen down again. That was strange, she thought to herself. Perhaps I had misjudged him? The words appeared clumsy on the white page, but not as clumsy as her thoughts… She wondered if she was closer to his own thinking now. Maybe, just maybe, she had had misread his intentions first?

“distance and time might challenge us with. Fate can be bent a little if and when minds are willing to go the extra mile. Would you be ready to go that extra mile for me? To overlook your past and mine and throw caution to the winds, will you…”

The words didn’t come as fast, coming from her left hand, and something didn’t sound just right, when she tried to recall exactly what he’d said.

“Two words on his lips, when my mind awoke” she thought, as if she had read that somewhere. Two words… What were they? She looked at her hands, as if one of them could give her the answer.

She let the pen switch from one to the other and back again…

“If you could just stop sighing my way…  I yearn to touch you in ways others have only dreamed of…  I think forgetting my very name is the only solution to bring peace to both our lives… You’ll be the reason I breathe, and I’ll cherish you forever…”

And suddenly the clouds parted in her head.

Mind games

He was playing mind games with her… Pushing and pulling, handling her as a love puppet tangled in its own strings.

Crumpling the scribbled piece of paper, she slipped it in her pocket… Hoping there would be another last letter. Wondering which of his hands would write it and if she’d be able to tell…

… to see through his mind games. At last.

 

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