From Anonymous, To Anonymous

A Story by Iris Jayne

Hey,

It’s me. Again.

It’s been six months, and still, I write.

I write without any significant reason; I just want to.

I just received your text message, BTW. It said: Merry Christmas, hope you’re happy. You know what? Me, too. I hope I am. I hope I will.

Of course I will. But for now, I just really can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel yet. Perhaps you have. You’ve always been one step ahead. Maybe that was one of the reasons we’re not together now. Because I couldn’t catch up with you. No matter how much I tried, I just wasn’t good enough.

I walked by the city plaza this afternoon all by myself. It was cold, if you may ask, and there were many people. They greeted me a lot, you know, with all the Christmas euphoria hangin’ in the air. I smiled, hoping they wouldn’t notice how hard it was for me to do that.

The trees were all adorned with these hundred little twinkling lights. The air was fused with voices from the parish choir.

I sat down at the cold metal bench just beside the church. You know, our bench.

Remember? We used to stargaze there. We used to sneak out of our homes and end up laughing about random things. You used to tell me I was your princess…you used to tell me a lot of things.

I can still hear your voice sometimes. Whispering, laughing, saying sweet nothings. Usually, I hear it in my sleep, and I still smile. I don’t know exactly why, but I do. Amazing, right?

This afternoon, the bench was cold and I was alone, though. I closed my eyes, and tried my best to remember everything.

The time you offered me your handkerchief when I cried about my mom being so all irritatingly superior. You told me everything would be fine. For some reason, I believed you. And it did, everything really became fine.

My birthday. You gave me this really huge purple teddy bear that smelled very much like you. I still have it beside me every night, although your scent had slightly waned long before. No matter, I still like to imagine it is there. It still works for me.

Valentine’s day. You gave me a dozen yellow roses, because you knew me well enough to know that I hated red ones. You also knew that I thought white roses were friendship roses, pink ones were just too feminine, and blue ones felt alien to me. You knew me so well.

I didn’t know what happened.

I remembered agreeing to be yours under the stars, the feel of your hand in mine, the depth of your eyes…I remembered the things you asked me to forget six months ago.

I guess you had forgotten my knack of violating the rules. I guess you had forgotten how much you meant to me. I guess you had forgotten just about everything.

I didn’t reply to your Christmas message, and I’m sorry. Last Christmas, you gave me a letter. A letter whose words I still read. It’s my bridge to the past, each word taking me back to that last Christmas where you first told me you loved me. The letter was long, and I knew how hard it had been for you to write each line, because you were never good with words. You were never good with feelings.

I didn’t reply because I wasn’t ready to be friends yet. I’m still in that empty, seemingly endless space between a breakup and moving on, and I can’t seem to find the right path to get out. Or maybe I don’t want to get out. At least not yet.

I miss you. Everyday. Every second. Every heartbeat.

I just can't get over how fast things happened, how it ended just like that. It wasn't even the eventual breakup our relationship deserved, it was three years after all. That's long, you know, considering how short relationships around us last. THREE YEARS...and I'm still head over heels for you, still swooning over your voice, still thinking of the possible future that lay ahead. Although of course it was already gone the moment you bid goodbye. Long gone, I know. But I just can't let you go. I'm still holding on to that last piece of the puzzle, because if I lost it, the puzzle will never be put together again. It will be forgotten, and I don’t want that to happen. You know why? Because it’s you. And I still believe that we were meant to be together. So much that I still hope, so much that it hurts.

You're not one of those people who come and go. You're not supposed to be. You're one of those who come and stay. I'm still trying to keep it that way. And you don't even know I still do, because I'm the only one left to play this game now. You're already somewhere I can't reach, unminding, perhaps even happy.

But I'm trying to move on...for you. Yes, still for you. I don’t want to hold you back, that's why.

I really really wish, with all my heart, that you could read this. For you to know I still care, for you to know that I'm still pathetically hoping for things to go back the way they were.

I love you. I still do.

I guess I always will.