The girl sat on the soft grass and stretched her legs, a book in her hand. She’d already checked the mailbox once, twice, but nothing was there.
Now she would have to wait. She opened her book, read a few pages, closed it, and looked around. She stared wistfully at the mailbox that was a couple of feet away from her, knowing fully that it was empty.
She still got up to check it.
Nope. No mail. She sighed, then looked around once again, at the grass.
The trees.
The people passing by.
People walking their dogs, jogging, in cars, talking on the phone.
But no bikes.
Not even one.
She tried to concentrate on her book, but it was impossible. She stared at the page until it went blurry. The girl closed her eyes and leaned back, soaking up the sun.
Maybe her hair would turn a lighter color because of all the waiting.
Just maybe…
She stared at her hands; played with them, counted her wrinkles and scars.
The girl changed positions. Now she was leaning against the red pole and fingering the old, broken “LAUGH” sign that used to hang from it.
No, she couldn’t laugh. Not when her letter hadn’t come.
She flung the sign out onto the street, then automatically regretted it.
She sighed, opened her book once again, and read the first verse.
Today my letter came in the mail.
She let out a frustrated sigh and stared at the sky. Why was everyone but her getting letters?
Hers was the one that mattered most.
At least that was what she thought.
Her heart started pounding quickly and her mouth went dry as she thought about the letter. How her fingers itched to open it, to read those words, to finally feel happiness.
She had to have it. The letter had to come.
Now.
She got up.
Maybe she could go get it.
No, that was rude.
And desperate.
She didn’t want to seem desperate.
All she wanted was the letter. Her letter. Their letter.
She waited and waited.
The sun went down; the weather changed; the girl clung to her loose sweater.
She wouldn’t go inside.
She couldn’t.
It was going to come.
It had to.
Her mother called her inside.
No. No. No. No.
She had to go in.
But she was there the next day, with a notebook in her hands. She wrote and wrote: about the letter, what exactly it would say, and how she’d react.
She wrote and wrote and wrote.
And wrote.
Everytime she heard something, her ears perked up, but everytime disappointment greeted it.
Oh well. It would come. Eventually.
The girl waited a week; then two. She drew, wrote, read, and waited.
Weeks turned into months, months into a year; yet the girl faithfully waited outside, always five feet away from the black mailbox: enough distance for her to sprint as soon as it came, but not be so close to it.
As the time passed, though, there was a noticeable change in the girl.
Her long, orange, tumbling locks were gone; replaced with close cropped black hair.
The childish smile was replaced with a sort of grimace.
The cute, girly dresses were traded for the tight, circulation-cutting jeans and loud t-shirts.
But it was the eyes that had changed the most. Long gone were the doe-like, big-as-marbles moss green eyes. Heavily-lined, sparkling cold emeralds took its place.
She still waited, but she didn’t jump up and down every time she heard a bike bell ring anymore. She didn’t whip her head up every single time she heard a boy’s voice.
It was one of those days.
The girl was leaning against the red pole lazily, blasting music from her phone, her eyes closed; her head lolling back and forth.
She heard someone coming.
She heard the bike tires screech as they stopped by the black mailbox.
She opened an eye.
It was him.
She didn’t get up; didn’t make any motions, just watched with interested eyes.
He dropped the letter in the box, carefully avoiding her gaze, and left as quickly as he had come.
She got up slowly, making her way toward the mailbox.
Had it always been this far away?
She took the letter out.
It was heavy.
She glanced at it; at the green envelope that matched her eyes so perfectly, and tucked it into the pocket of her jeans.
She’d read it later.
Now she would have to wait. She opened her book, read a few pages, closed it, and looked around. She stared wistfully at the mailbox that was a couple of feet away from her, knowing fully that it was empty.
She still got up to check it.
Nope. No mail. She sighed, then looked around once again, at the grass.
The trees.
The people passing by.
People walking their dogs, jogging, in cars, talking on the phone.
But no bikes.
Not even one.
She tried to concentrate on her book, but it was impossible. She stared at the page until it went blurry. The girl closed her eyes and leaned back, soaking up the sun.
Maybe her hair would turn a lighter color because of all the waiting.
Just maybe…
She stared at her hands; played with them, counted her wrinkles and scars.
The girl changed positions. Now she was leaning against the red pole and fingering the old, broken “LAUGH” sign that used to hang from it.
No, she couldn’t laugh. Not when her letter hadn’t come.
She flung the sign out onto the street, then automatically regretted it.
She sighed, opened her book once again, and read the first verse.
Today my letter came in the mail.
She let out a frustrated sigh and stared at the sky. Why was everyone but her getting letters?
Hers was the one that mattered most.
At least that was what she thought.
Her heart started pounding quickly and her mouth went dry as she thought about the letter. How her fingers itched to open it, to read those words, to finally feel happiness.
She had to have it. The letter had to come.
Now.
She got up.
Maybe she could go get it.
No, that was rude.
And desperate.
She didn’t want to seem desperate.
All she wanted was the letter. Her letter. Their letter.
She waited and waited.
The sun went down; the weather changed; the girl clung to her loose sweater.
She wouldn’t go inside.
She couldn’t.
It was going to come.
It had to.
Her mother called her inside.
No. No. No. No.
She had to go in.
But she was there the next day, with a notebook in her hands. She wrote and wrote: about the letter, what exactly it would say, and how she’d react.
She wrote and wrote and wrote.
And wrote.
Everytime she heard something, her ears perked up, but everytime disappointment greeted it.
Oh well. It would come. Eventually.
The girl waited a week; then two. She drew, wrote, read, and waited.
Weeks turned into months, months into a year; yet the girl faithfully waited outside, always five feet away from the black mailbox: enough distance for her to sprint as soon as it came, but not be so close to it.
As the time passed, though, there was a noticeable change in the girl.
Her long, orange, tumbling locks were gone; replaced with close cropped black hair.
The childish smile was replaced with a sort of grimace.
The cute, girly dresses were traded for the tight, circulation-cutting jeans and loud t-shirts.
But it was the eyes that had changed the most. Long gone were the doe-like, big-as-marbles moss green eyes. Heavily-lined, sparkling cold emeralds took its place.
She still waited, but she didn’t jump up and down every time she heard a bike bell ring anymore. She didn’t whip her head up every single time she heard a boy’s voice.
It was one of those days.
The girl was leaning against the red pole lazily, blasting music from her phone, her eyes closed; her head lolling back and forth.
She heard someone coming.
She heard the bike tires screech as they stopped by the black mailbox.
She opened an eye.
It was him.
She didn’t get up; didn’t make any motions, just watched with interested eyes.
He dropped the letter in the box, carefully avoiding her gaze, and left as quickly as he had come.
She got up slowly, making her way toward the mailbox.
Had it always been this far away?
She took the letter out.
It was heavy.
She glanced at it; at the green envelope that matched her eyes so perfectly, and tucked it into the pocket of her jeans.
She’d read it later.
3 Comments