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One of the bedrooms he recognizes, the one he woke up in. He steps inside. It even smells familiar, like Elias.
Then he sees it.
A folded-up paper on the bed.
Marked with a giant “K”.
Kyle knows it’s for him instantly. There’s no doubt in his heart. He rushes up, snatches the letter, opens it up at once.
Hey, K.
If you’re reading this, then congratulations, you’re officially trespassing. Just kidding. Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I handwrote a letter? Anyway, I guess I’m about to disappear for a while, they found me, so my best recommendation is to just get on with your life, forget you met me, and maybe reconsider giving up blood for good. I know you’re probably still mad and feel like we have tons of unfinished business. I’m sorry, it’ll have to stay unfinished. There’s no use looking for me. In fact, please don’t. I knew what we had was tagged with an expiration date long before it even started. Everything good in my life always is. Sorry, there I go, pitying myself again. Tempted to scratch this part out. Anyway, I still stand by everything I said before I left, even if it makes you mad. You should embrace what you are, K. It’s bad-ass. It’s beautiful. It’s what the world needs. Hey, I also meant to ask, did you know I went out to the desert that morning to end my life, too? Hate to write it this way in a letter. Sorry, this should’ve been something we talked about in person. But here I am, staring at the words I just wrote, and I don’t feel like crumpling this up and starting over. So there. Now you know. Guess I had a lot on my mind that morning. My mother. My brother’s death, the anniversary of which always crushes me every damned year. You saved my life that morning, too. I believe we’re both still here for a reason. We just need to find out what the fuck it is. Let’s not waste this second shot, alright? Good luck. Don’t die or I’ll kill you.
Love, E.
19.
How Special You Are.
—·—
Kyle drops onto the bed, staring at the letter, overcome.
He can’t even properly identify which part of the letter has him the most struck with disbelief.
Kyle rereads the letter as he slowly paces the house. Who is Elias, really? Who found him? Where is he? The letter raises more questions than it answers.
Until now, Kyle respected Elias’s privacy, refraining from doing the obvious thing of looking him up online. After reading the letter, Kyle finds his mind dramatically changed. He pulls out his phone, opens the search engine, types Elias Asad Trujillo, and mashes his thumb with conviction.
The list of results are frustratingly null. No social media pages. No images. No business links. No associations. Nothing. Running just the last name Trujillo is also comically unhelpful, especially without context. Over 200 results in Arizona alone.
“Why are you insisting to stay such a damned secret to me, Elias?” Kyle asks the letter, as if it’ll grow a mouth and answer him. He walks around, gazing at all of the clutter that makes up the remnants of Elias’s secret life here, wondering if he’ll spot something helpful. He doesn’t. He reads the letter again, then flips it over, looking for a hidden message leading him to Elias’s location, anything at all. Suddenly mad, he swipes a lighter off a nearby table and flicks it on, daring to burn the letter. It may even be satisfying.
Then Kyle’s on the floor in the middle of the living room, the letter not burned to ashes. Haven’t enough things become ashes in his life? No need to make any more. The last letter of any meaning to him is riding the wind of the Arizona desert.
Kyle may have to hang on to this one especially tight.
It’s about four in the morning when he’s back home. In the darkness of his house, he listens to the world around him, to the distant rustling of dirt and tiny rocks as the wind stirs them. He lies back on the couch with the letter on his chest and stares up at the curtains, hands behind his head, thinking of donuts.
Donuts and Elias.
And that one terrible morning that feels like yesterday.
He closes his eyes.
It is only a few hours later when the noise of his phone stirs him. He rises at once, reaches for his phone off the end table, knocks it onto the floor. He scrambles for it, on his knees, then peers at the caller.
He frowns. It’s no one he recognizes.
Maybe it’s Elias from an anonymous number. Elias, finally trying to reach him from a secret location. Elias, at last.
Kyle answers in a hurry, wide-eyed. “Hello?”
“Good morning,” comes a nasally woman’s voice, as sharp as cheddar, as sweet as a pineapple. “This is Dahlia with Dahlia Dishes, seven-time winner of the Carly Castle Award and twice recipient of the coveted Platinum Page Prize. Is this Kyle to whom I have the pleasure of speaking? Or are you Henry?”
