The Message

Folded in thirds, one single sheet of lined paper lay in her hands. Crisp crinkles called out when she clutched her hand tighter. Then absentmindedly tracing the straight edges and folds, her grasp eased. On the table in front of her sat the plain white envelope where it stared at her and screamed with wide, dry lips. There it called her to submit her paper, but she did not yeild, sitting paralyzed by the thought.
His name was spelled out on the front of the envelope, taunting her while its parched mouth still screamed to her face. Setting down the paper, she lowered her head and rubbed at her temples. Tangled thoughts were whipping around her head like restless snakes. Send it, or not?
Two months since she saw him. Two months since she talked to him. Days filled with endless waiting, stretching patience like a worn rubber band waiting to snap, yet shaking it held on, like only she could. Some days, taking up her phone, she'd press in his number and dare herself to push down the talk button beneath a a shaking thumb. Only then, after prolonged mintues of sitting, the phone would close again, to eat up the number on the tiny screen. Promptly leaving the room, the cursed phone lay on the floor, a temporary plague to her hand.
Then here were words concealed in folded paper, sitting on the table and telling her a promise. Fresh out of the mailbox, he would stretch out his hand to clutch onto her breath-kissed paper. Soft and callused fingers tear open the seal to pull out the written note. Then a message back in his own hand writing, palpable record to hold dear. Then he would know and she would know.
A single tear fell from her cheek and onto the paper. Raising her head, she looked at the paper once again. Quickly taking up her hands, paper slipped into envelope and tongue passed over seal to close in finality. Then a stamp was placed in the top right corner, opposite to her neatly written name.
To the mailbox she trekked, barefoot down the driveway and into the grass. Into the black container the letter disappeared to its clutches. Folding her arms, she ran back inside, too afraid to look or think of the letter any longer.