The Yellow Envelope

It was a Monday, and Aoife just wanted to start things correctly. She missed her bus, she missed several cross walks, and she was late for work. As soon as she got home she found out that  her roommate left the gate wide open and the mailbox unlocked. Aoife took a deep breath, and tried, for the last time, to start things correctly.

She opened the mailbox and a bunch of letter flew down the ground. The damp ground of Seattle was not forgiving – half the letters were now wet and soiled. Going down on her knees, she picked up the letters one by one. She noticed a bright yellow envelope, with her name inscribed on the seal. It stood out in the gray wash of the day. She flipped it over, and if she could go any longer, she should have.

A bolting shock erupted from her body, and quickly, she felt weak. It was a letter from Marcus, someone close to her heart.

Why would he write?

 

Gathering all the other letters, she slowly walked inside her apartment, staring blankly at the bright yellow envelope.

She calmed herself down with a glass of water. Leaning on the kitchen sink, she stared at the yellow envelope, with he half full glass in her hand.

She drank all of it, not pulling her eyes away from the bright yellow envelope.

 

It has been six years since they last talked. She remembers exactly what she told him.

 

Six years ago, on a college tour, Aoife wandered away from her group, and she found herself lost in one of the halls of the great library. She didn’t panic, Aoife remembered. She felt like she belonged to a place like a library, where in she can get lost in the magic and wonders of words. She didn’t bother to look for her group – she wandered deeper, walking up and down the stairs, browsing through the sections here and there.

And she picked up “Great Expectations” by Charles Dickens.

“I wouldn’t read that,” a boy behind her said.

“It’s a Dickens classic,” she shot back.

He smiled. She was irritated at first, but his smile softened her.

She smiled back.

“You’re lost, are you? You know what they do to wandering high schoolers on this campus?” he teased.

“Don’t even bother teasing me. I’m not a middle schooler,” she said as she walked back slowly, away.

“I’m Marcus, and if you tell me your name, I can tell you where your group is,” he said, reaching for a handshake.

“How do you–?” Before she could finish her question, Marcs lifted his ID around his neck, suggesting he’s on a college tour himself, but from another high school. She looked at her own ID.

Aoife reached for his hand and shook it firmly, “Aoife.”

“Pleasure,” he said. “They’re upstairs, heading towards the great study hall to your left when you come up.”

“Thanks,” she said, running upstairs.

 

Two months later, when she’d forgotten about him, she visited a vintage book store in town. The dilapidated look of the store was no marketing strategy – the business was struggling, but it did help promote the place. The sight of yellowing,used and leather-bound books from the smudged windows made it look like a time portal in the earlier centuries. The ambiance was antique, but Aoife’s excitement seeing books remained the same.

She would spend several minutes browsing around, and though she never actually bought a book from there, she would generously leave some change or a few dollars at the register, with or without the cashier’s notice.

“Is it really you?” A man behind her asked.

Instantly, she remembered. Marcus.

“Yes,” she smiled.

“Aoife, right?”

“And you’re Marcus,” she said. They laughed shook hands.

“Well, I’m not lost anymore,” she kidded.

“I noticed, yes. You don’t have your ID, too,” he laughed.

After a few seconds of fake laughing, Marcus braved out to ask her out.

 

There were no reasons to say no, and a lot of reasons to fall in love.

 

Though it never worked out, Aoife told herself. They were together since then, but not close enough to call each other boyfriend and girlfriend. They went to prom together, spent nights together, saw each other exclusively, but they both felt that it seemed like they were going nowhere.

It was not a bad decision to stay friends. Close, close friends for that matter. They kissed, and they hugged. They were more than friends on occasions, but they, really, were just friends.

 

When Marcus left for college, they easily drifted apart. They lost contact, never saw each other again. Ever.

 

So why would he write me a letter? How did he find out where I live?

 

Aoife finally took courage to open the letter.

 

Dear Aoife,

 

Perhaps you do not remember me anymore, so I’m going to introduce myself – once more. I am Marcus, and we met because of Charles Dickens. For the past six years, I tried to forget how I felt for you back when we were younger. We were confused about how we felt for each other, but we didn’t care. We had each other, and that’s what mattered.

For the past six years that I was away from you, things did not go well. Being away from you directed me to all sorts of directions. These directions I took were wrong, and even more confusing. I was lost, but I found what I really wanted.

Do you remember what you told me before you left my graduation party, which was the last time we saw each other? You said that, it did not matter how much it would make you or break you – you wanted to know the person that I will love.

And now, in the hopes that you’ve reach this letter, I am fulfilling that promised I made six years ago.

I met someone I thought I liked. I did like her, and now I love her. And I love her even more that she’s been away from me for a long time.

Meet me tonight, at 7:30 pm, in the first place we met. I have great expectations from you. J

 

Always,

M

 

Quickly, Aoife bolted towards the door. She grabbed her purse and goat. She ran outside the gate, leaving it open. The gate flung hard outwards that it slammed the mailbox, knocking off its handle.

 

She run across the street, wanting to see her long lost friend.

Her long lost lover.

 

Aoife could have started correctly.

Her eyes blinded her from the bright lights quickly approaching her in the dimming, damp early evening in Seattle. Her ears wear deaf to the booming horns approaching her for all she wanted was to hear Marcus’s voice again.

 

How did it his voice sound like? How did he look like now, after six long years?

 

These were the last questions Aoife had, and as she took her last breaths on the cold pavement, on the damp, gray early evening, still hoping she had started correctly.