The Letter

The sunlight in his room was garish from his lack of curtains. I told him time and time again to get some, but he just shrugged it off. The two o’clock afternoon heat made beads of sweat on my neck, my loose, uncombed hair sticking to my skin. He told me to sit on his bed and get my gift, to which I did not find. He chuckled as if I was a child and pointed at the old,tattered book. Its spine was etched with seemingly white veins, the cover and page edges forming little triangles. I opened up the first page, its thickness too much for my nimble hands to hold onto with one that it fell. A white slip of paper peeked through. His scribbles were worse than mine that I just knew he wrote it in the middle of the night when his thoughts ran wild. The book, the letter said, was a metaphor.

And that was when I knew that like that tattered book, his heart was now mine. I must have let out the most girlish whine I could ever release my entire life, the tears forming in my eyes. I am holding a heart again, one I had always wanted to. Why wouldn’t I? Mine was his all this time.

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