Misha
I hold his letter in my hand, the last one he sent me in February before he stopped writing, and stare at the handwriting probably only I can read. The rough strokes and abrupt marks crossing the t’s and dotting the i’s, and the way he never puts the appropriate amount of space between words, so his sentences end up looking like one big, long hashtag.
Amusement creeps up. I’ve never had a problem reading his writing, though. I grew up with it, after all.
So many times I’ve read this letter. Looking for clues—any clues—to figure out why he stopped writing after this. There’s no hint that this was a goodbye, no indication that he was going to be any busier than usual or that he’d gotten bored or tired of me…
The emptiness is getting bigger and wider and deeper, and I sit on my bed, “Happy Song” playing from my iPod, and study his words that always put the perfect light on anything.
I’m not ready to start my day.
Why don’t I want to get up or even muster the energy to worry about what I’m going to wear?
He’s the only thing I look forward to. The only reason I rush home from school, so I can see if there’s mail for me.
I look up and stare at the words I wrote on my chalk wall last night.
Alone
Empty
Fraud
Masen’s words are in my head now. Not Misha’s.
“Ryen!” my mom calls and knocks on my bedroom door. “Are you up?”
My shoulders fall a bit, and I force myself to answer. “Yeah.”
I’m not entirely lying. I am awake and sitting up in bed, cross-legged and reading.
But as I hear her steps retreat back down the hallway and the stairs, I glance at the clock and see that I’ve procrastinated long enough. Folding the letter back up, I slip it into the white envelope and stick it in my bedside drawer. The rest of Misha’s letters are under my bed, every single one close in case I need them.
Standing up, I make my bed and pack my school bag before walking to my closet and snatching out a pair of white shorts and a black top. I may have already worn that outfit this week. I’m not sure. I suddenly don’t care.
Once dressed, I head for the bathroom to do my hair and make-up since I already showered after swim lessons last night.
I can’t believe that asshole threw me in the pool. It was my turn to stand up to him, and I was doing a damn good job, but just like a guy, when he can’t win with wit, he uses brawn.
Slow clap for Masen.
He may have had the last word, but he’d had to step up his game to do it. I feel an ounce of pride and smile as I enter the bathroom.
I straighten my hair, getting rid of my bedhead, and begin applying my make-up, getting rid of the dark circles I have from staying up too late doing homework last night. I also add some blush to make me look healthy and happy.
Someone walks in and tosses something in front of me. I look down and see my black envelope addressed to Misha. I pick it up.
It’s the letter I wrote him a few days ago. I can tell, because it has the stamps with the planets on them I just bought at the post office last week.
I look over at my sister, seeing her hair up in a messy bun and that she’s wearing a summer dress with my black flats she didn’t ask if she could borrow.
I frown. “Why do you have my letter?”
“I took it out of the mailbox when I left for class the other day.”
“Why?”
“Because he hasn’t written you in months,” she snips. “You need to let it go.”
Anger boils under my skin as I watch her twist toward the mirror and mess with her bun. “Tell me again how that’s any of your business,” I snap, and I don’t care if our mom hears.
“Ryen, it’s pathetic,” she says, looking at me like I’m a child. “You look like you’re chasing him. When he gets his shit together, he can find you.”
I throw down the letter and grab my lipstick, facing the mirror again. “He’s not my boyfriend who needs to check in, and I don’t have to explain myself to you. Don’t touch my mail again.”
“Fine.” She turns and walks for the door but stops and turns her head to look at me. “Oh, and mom’s waiting for you at the kitchen table. She saw your essay score online.”
She walks out, and I close my eyes, entertaining the idea of taking a cue from Masen for a wonderful split-second.
Cannonball or washing machine, Carson? Maybe a haircut?
I walk out of my house and past my Jeep, holding the strap of my school bag over my shoulder as I carry my letter to Misha back to the mailbox. I stick it inside and raise the flag so the mail carrier knows to pick it up.