For Celine
Lit Up — February’s Prompt: Letters
I enjoy having lunch in the park by myself. The windowless staff room sucks the life out of me and I’m not keen on joining yet another of my colleague’s gossip sprees.
Five months ago I moved to this foreign city to start fresh; to finally start living, but so far I had only made the acquaintance of my colleagues and flatmates. Twenty-eight years old and sharing a flat. In the beginning I thought it was funny. Now, not so much. The bigger the city, the more people I’ll get to know, that’s what I hoped for. I guess I was naïve.
It’s colder than yesterday but I don’t mind. Fewer people and more benches for me to choose from. I look forward to sitting down and eating my tomato mozzarella sandwich wrapped inside the brown paper bag from the French bakery.
Under the nearest park bench, I spot a beige-colored envelope lying silently on the leaf-covered ground. Two words are written on the back of it:
For Celine
The handwriting is precise but graceful.
Obviously, this letter isn’t meant for me. It’s for a woman who was named after the moon.
I scan the park for the sender, but no one seems to be looking for something they lost. I turn the envelope over and over in my hands until curiosity gets the better of me and I open it with care.
My Moonlight,
My heartbeat accelerates. I let myself in on an intimate secret without permission and the guilt immediately comes knocking at my conscience.
It’s been two years since you left me. I’ve lost count of the number of letters I already wrote. Dr. Matthews recommends I keep writing them even though I don’t see the point anymore. It’s not like they’ll miraculously bring you back. They only remind me of my loss.
I remember how you wrapped yourself in the blanket, only your head sticking out, leaving me uncovered during the night. Now that I have the blanket all to myself, I feel colder than ever. Nothing can keep me as warm as your body could.
I’ve kept all your things, even your collection of green tea I dislike so much. One day when I was drunk, I decided to give it another try; let’s just stay I’ll stick with coffee.
I miss the way you looked at me, as if I was the first man you ever loved. I hope you could read the same in my eyes.
My gaze wanders from one person to the next, trying to figure out who could’ve written those heartbreaking words. I can’t imagine it was the three suits gulping down their lunch while on their phones, or the older folks walking their dogs.
Friends urge me to socialize more, “get out there” again. You’re a good-looking guy, they say. I’m not so sure they’re being honest though. I often feel like a shell of my former self. What woman would in her right mind would find that attractive?
Does true love do that to you, carving you out till there’s nothing left of you? It sounds painful, but I wish I knew how it felt.
This man must’ve found the love of his life while some of us are doomed to ride the unreciprocated love train forever. I wonder if he’d switch places with me, if he could.
I’m still going to our park. The leaves are slowly dying and falling to the ground. Soon, the trees will be completely bare. I sit on our bench waiting for you even though I know you’ll never come.
Sometimes, a woman sits on our bench, reading while having lunch all by herself. I couldn’t help but notice the bag from your favorite bakery.
I put my sandwich away and peek at the book inside my purse. Could he be writing about me?
Sitting there alone, lost in her book, she looks sad sometimes, but not in a depressing kind of way. Maybe in a lonely kind of way. Do people look at me and think the same?
How strange to have a stranger figure you out like that. The black letters in front of me wobble with my unshed tears as I think of long days filled with work and quiet nights curled up in front of the TV.
I reluctantly look up. Nobody seems to notice me. I blink, and a heavy tear drops onto the paper, smudging the ink at the bottom of the letter. I dry my cheeks and continue to read.
I miss you so much, my moonlight.
Let others have their sunshines and stars; you will always be my moon. Even though this is my last letter to you, I will treasure our memories for as long as I live.
Love,
— -
My tears rendered the name illegible.
I read it again. Then I carefully slide the letter back in its envelope and play with the idea to put it back under the bench. But what if someone else finds it? I feel protective of its vulnerability. Maybe I can be its keeper until Celine’s lover comes back to claim it. If he comes.
Going back to the office is the last thing I want to do.
As I approach the park gates, a tall man rushes past me, a haunted expression on his face.
I turn around. He kneels in front of the bench I was just sitting on a moment ago and peeks under it. With quick movements, he burrows through the leaves.
I freeze on the spot, immovable like the trees surrounding me. The letter inside my purse weighs more than paper is supposed to. I shouldn’t have taken it in the first place.
I jolt myself out of my stupor and walk toward the man whose name I erased with my tear. He’s sitting on the bench now, head bent down, his elbows resting on his knees.
“Excuse me.”
He looks up.
I don’t know why but I expected someone older.
He stares at me with the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen. Green-brown like the colors of autumn leaves.
“I think this is yours.” I clear my throat before the lump inside it turns too big to let me ever speak again.
His eyes become more focused and he stretches out his hand to take what’s his.
I’m sure he knows I read it. My face feels hot.
I look down at my feet. It’s as if I’ve seen him naked. And I kind of have. (He stripped himself down to the bone with this letter.)
“I’m sorry,” I say.
He nods as he gently strokes the back of the envelope.
The silence is as chilling as the air. I turn around to leave.
“My name’s Zachary, but I guess you already knew that.” His voice is as tender as the words in his letter.
I stop. Zachary.
My brain urges me to go back to work, but my feet move toward the bench.
“I’m Vanessa.”
“Nice to meet you.” A faint smile lightens up his face.
I smile back. “I just couldn’t let it lie there.”
“Thank you.” Slowly, Zachary folds the envelope and hides it in his pocket. He moves over. “Would you mind …?”
The prospect of his company makes me stay. “Not at all.” My voice is quiet, but at least it’s not shaking.
We stare silently at the oak tree in front of us.
“This was supposed to be the last one,” he says.
I look at his profile, at his dense dark eye lashes, and the pointy chin. “I’m glad I found it.”
