Chapter 6 #2
Truth is, I think meeting you ruined the quiet little life that I convinced myself was enough.
Not because you did anything extraordinary.
You weren’t flashy. You didn’t flirt with every woman that crossed your path, like men normally do.
You just looked at people. Really looked at them.
Like they mattered. It didn’t matter if they were in your tax bracket or had your connections; they were human beings and that says a lot about you.
Do you know how dangerous that is to someone like me?
I’m thirty years old and I’ve spent most of my life surviving instead of living.
I wake up before sunrise and get my daughter dressed for school, I braid her hair while she complains about homework and other imaginary life struggles, then I go to work, where I sometimes work a double shift just to make ends meet.
I come home exhausted. Repeat. Repeat again.
Somewhere in between taking care of my daughter and paying bills, I forgot that women like me were still allowed to feel things.
Then you showed up and looked at me like I was soft, instead of the worn-down woman I truly am.
I hated you for that at first. Hated the way your voice lingered in my mind.
The way I caught myself checking my appearance before each of our unexpected encounters.
The way I watched you silently and smiled.
Please don’t think that I’m some crazy stalker.
This is embarrassing enough. Like being sixteen years old again and being trapped inside a grown woman’s body.
But worse than all of that, is realizing that I’d never experienced intimacy before.
Not REAL intimacy. Yes, I’ve been touched before and probably even desired.
But never SEEN. Never handled gently. Never spoken to in a way that made me feel human instead of temporary.
And you did all of that without even trying.
You probably don’t even remember holding the door open for me. But something that small held SO much weight. Because it came so damn natural to you.
I know this letter is inappropriate and truthfully, it’s insane.
A woman secretly getting your address to send a letter sounds like one of those cautionary tales that people laugh about online.
Maybe after this, you’ll throw it away and maybe you should.
But for once in my life, I wanted to be brave instead of careful.
I wanted to tell someone that they changed something inside of me.
Not in a dramatic way that songs describe love because I’m not claiming to know you.
I’m not asking for forever or even for a response.
I just needed you to know that somewhere in this world, there’s a woman who had forgotten what warmth felt like until she met a stranger.
I’m not putting a return address because this wasn’t me “shooting my shot.” LOL.
And in a way, I think that’s keeps this somewhat beautiful instead of embarrassing.
Some things are safer unfinished and untouched.
Like a song you never play all the way through because you’re afraid the ending won’t feel as good as the beginning.
So, I’ll leave you with this instead: Thank you for making me feel alive before disappearing back into your own world. It will not be forgotten.
Sincerely,
Forever
What the fuck!
I had to sit and read this letter again ’cause who the fuck was this!
“Nigga, who you fucked and got them doing this type of shit?” I spoke aloud, looking down at my dick.
The hell did she mean by I treated her “softly.” I had to sit and think about who I met when I went to Jamaica a couple of weeks ago, and if I should’ve been concerned because clearly, she had my address.
“What the fuck?” I muttered, rereading the letter again.
This shit was giving secret admirer mixed with stalker vibes, and I honestly didn’t know whether to laugh or really be concerned. My dick was always getting us into some shit. I leaned back in my chair and ran my hand across my face trying to put this shit together.
I was sitting and thinking hard about every woman I crossed paths with in Jamaica.
Every conversation. Every night out. But nothing was clicking.
Nobody stood out enough to be sending me handwritten letters like this.
Then another thought hit me and had me sitting up straighter.
Wherever I met her wasn’t near my home so the biggest question yet was how the fuck did she find out where I lived?
Whoever she was now had access to my personal space which was sacred to me.
Weirdly, the letter didn’t really give full on stalker vibes or serial killer, but I still couldn’t help but to rack my brain with questions.
“Why you look stressed?” Zelly asked, walking into the kitchen. She fixed herself a plate and came to sit beside me at the island, and I slid her the letter. She started reading with her eyes getting bigger and bigger.
“Awwww! This is scary and so sweet at the same time. So, do you know who this is?” she asked, and I just sat there still trying to figure this out.
We sat and ate our food, and I couldn’t tell you how many times I read that letter and still had no idea who it came from. Shit was crazy.