I jog down the stairs, my excitement buzzing under my skin.
My footsteps echo as I head toward the mailroom, my pulse quickening with every step.
The wall of mailboxes comes into view; rows and rows of small metal doors, each dented or scratched, each holding someone’s life in envelopes.
I find mine, sticking the key in.
Jiggling it once, twice, I twist harder until the lock finally gives with a dull click. The door creaks open, metal scraping softly, and I lean in, peering inside.
A stack of mail waits for me, its edges uneven. I pull it out and rest it against my hip, flipping through it one piece at a time.
Electric bill, gross.
Health insurance bill, scam.
A grocery flyer I absolutely didn’t ask for.
My chest tightens just a little as the next envelope comes into view.
I slide it out carefully, my fingers catching on the edge for a second before it comes free. It’s heavier than the others, thicker somehow, and my thumb drifts over the ink without thinking.
The handwriting stops me cold. I know it. I’ve watched that hand wrap around a mug, grip a paintbrush, and rest against my hip.
Reed.
He wrote me back.
I press the envelope to my chest without thinking, my heart slamming so hard it makes me dizzy.
For a second, I stand there in the mailroom, surrounded by metal, concrete, and other people’s junk mail, trying to remember how to breathe.
Shoving the rest of the mail back into the box, I close it with a soft clang and float back upstairs.
Once inside my apartment, I lock the door, and the click echoes through the quiet. I lean back against it, staring down at the envelope in my hands, finally letting myself feel it.
I push off the door and cross the room slowly, heading into my bedroom. I sit on the edge of my bed and smooththe envelope against my thigh before turning it over in my hands.
Carefully, I break the seal.
First, a pressed sunflower falls out, and I instantly tear up. My fingers trace the dried flower, admiring its beauty.
Next, the paper inside slides out with a whisper, folded once. I unfold it, holding my breath, my heart pounding loud enough to feel in my ears.
Sunshine,
I don’t know when you’ll read this. I thought about waiting until I saw you again, but I didn’t want to.
I keep thinking about you. About the way you laughed that night. About the kiss. I don’t think I realized how much it would stay with me.
I miss you more than I expected to.
I’m not great at putting things into words, especially on paper, but I wanted you to know that I’m really looking forward to seeing you again.
I’ll be here when you get back.
— Reed
I read it again, slower this time.
