An envelope. Just an off-white envelope with gentle pen strokes spelling out my full name:
Reed Hayes
Her handwriting curves as if she wrote it with a soft smile she couldn’t hold back. A small floral sticker seals the flap, and in the top corner is her address in Los Angeles, and I’m floored she even thought to write me at all.
Cherry and vanilla notes waft from the envelope before I even open it; the exact scent of her perfume.
Her presence surrounds me in that simple detail, and for a moment, I stand there, breathing her in.
I take my time breaking the seal. The flap opens with a soft tear, and a Polaroid slips into my hand first, and I catch it carefully.
It’s a selfie of Layla as she beams up at me from the glossy surface; her hair tousled by the wind, cheeks flushed from laughter, neon city lights behind her that look wild and alive.
I turn the picture over.
A tiny note in the bottom corner reads:
For your mantle. ;-)
I smile to myself and carefully take out the letter from the envelope. The letter is neatly folded, but the creases look softened, as if she had folded it many times.
Reed,
I promised myself I would wait like a normal person and let you get back to your life without me barging in through the mailbox like I am some drunken pen pal, but apparently, I’m terrible at patience and even worse at pretending I don’t think about you every five minutes.
I keep picturing you sitting beside me by the lake, trying to paint tiny yellow suns even though you insisted your flower looked like a sad amoeba, but it was still cute because you made it.
I miss you—the one who let me see the soft parts, even when you hated how exposed itmade you feel. I want you to know that those moments mattered to me more than you think, and I keep replaying them like tiny movie scenes in my head.
I hate how much I miss you, and I hate that missing you feels so incredibly good at the same time, which should be illegal because I already have enough emotional confusion. I know this thing between us is messy, probably ill-advised, and something my therapist will eventually raise her eyebrows at, but I can’t bring myself to regret a single second.
If you want to reply, you should, because I am checking the mailbox like a raccoon hunting for shiny things, and I’m pretty sure my neighbors think I’m in love with a mailman.
Keep my seat warm, okay?
xoxo, Layla
Her words blur for a second, not because they are unclear, but because they land somewhere within my heart that has been hers all along.
I sit on the porch step because my knees need support, and I run my thumb along the Polaroid again, unable to ignore the heat building behind my ribs.
Folding the letter carefully, avoiding any creases on its softer edges where her hand rested longest, I hold it open in my palm for a moment longer, letting every last trace of her scent and warmth seep into my skin before I rise again.
She is out there, missingme.
And for the first time since she left, my heart no longer feels like it’s bracing for impact.
I fold the letter one more time, mostly because I’m afraid that if I don’t, I’ll keep reading it until the ink fades from how hard my eyes cling to every word.
Carefully tucking the envelope into my pocket, I take more than two steps toward the front door as gravel crunches loudly in my driveway.
Two vehicles pull up, totally disregarding the noise ordinance that likely exists somewhere in this town.
Maverick arrives first in his unnecessarily massive Bronco, its engine rumbling.
He swings the door open with too much enthusiasm, and Leo immediately starts screeching from the backseat, his black vans kicking against the seat as he reaches for his dad.
Amelia follows behind Maverick, smoothing a hand over Leo’s bright, blonde curls while giving my house a curious once-over.
