Today,
I was in the bookstore, getting my hands on a Nicholas Sparks’ read for the weekend (I bought ‘Message in a Bottle’) when suddenly, I felt like writing you a letter.
I remembered my last letter to you.
And the last, last letter.
Both were never received because they were never sent.
The last, last – was written on pink paper with sakura prints. And sealed in a sakura-printed envelope. I carried it around in my bag for days, although I knew that it wasn’t possible we would meet, then.
Eventually, pink letter ended up on my table as a coaster of sorts.
Because I couldn’t bear to throw it away.
Because carrying it around everyday reminded me of you.
Even if you had wanted to read it, the water marks left by daily drinking cups sitting on it had already rendered it unreadable. But I still remember vaguely what I wrote.
I think I was scolding you.
The last letter, was written on Korean designed paper which came in a tiny size. I used two tiny papers and one envelope. I sneaked the paper out of my sister’s drawer (Sorry!) because I just wanted to write you, then.
I think what I wrote was cheery, and trite. Partly because I wanted you to be happy – I want everyone to be happy – and not worry about me. I know you did.
Something that was blithe but also quite insincere.
I carried around that letter in my white small bag, you know, the one I bought from Bangkok in June. I put it in that bag because we were supposed to meet that day.
But we didn’t meet and the letter is still in that bag.
I’m not going to write anymore letters to you – those words that came from and left my heart but got lost along the way.
I wanted to write a letter to you today, but I didn’t know what to write.
I think,
It’s better that I stop.
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