Flash Fiction: The Letter

I hold your letter with shaking hands. You belong to a different lifetime, one that saw a different piece of the world and a broken heart and a child that no longer exists. You belong to a place that has remained behind a locked door, deadbolt rusty after years of stillness. Silence.

I hold your letter with shaking hands and immediately imagine the world that opened up when another me made a different choice, the opposite choice. The dimension that was born when the other me persisted, instead of giving up. I imagine that you let me in, that you became a person who trusted and let go and decided that you were allowed to feel something other than the resignation you’d carried so long, like a security blanket. I fantasize that there is more than just a smile on your face – I fantasize that now it reaches your eyes.

I hold your letter with shaking hands because none of those things happened.  Instead I became a different person and the place where a kiss was stolen, the place where we, finally, met, hours before you left on a plane, was filed in the folder labeled “Past Life.”

Past life. Except now you are no longer past. You are here, and I am different, but am I, am I truly so different? I do not think so. I do not think so.

I hold your letter in shaking hands and agree to do something I know is wrong.

2 Responses to “Flash Fiction: The Letter”
  1. The repetition of that first line makes this seem like a mantra or something. Very interesting technique.

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