Love Letters to No One

Hi. I’m just writing to tell you that today felt like the first day of my life. I didn’t do anything different. It was a normal day. I walked along the same streets, went to the same classes, talked to the same people. It was a normal day. But inexplicably, there was something unfamiliar, subtle, strange, new. I don’t know how to describe it, but I took my first breath today. I opened my eyes for the first time. I felt love for the first time. I took in the sunshine for the first time. Hope you’re doing well.

 

That was the first message. I had just gotten a new number. I thought nothing of it at first. I didn’t respond. Didn’t block the number. Just left it alone. Barely skimmed through the text, if I’m going to be honest. I think I was on my way to meet my mother when I got the text. Or maybe going to pick up coffee. I don’t remember. I only started really thinking about the texts when the next one arrived. 

 

Hi. Today, I went to a vintage shop. On a shelf at the very back, I saw a pair of gently used wings. The tag read, “pair of wings–gently used.” They were a little yellow and coated in dust. Under the shelf was a box of old letters. I opened the one at the very bottom and it told a story. I think it was the old woman’s. (You know, the one asleep at the big oak desk?) It told the story of a mother and son, a love so fleeting and great. She wrote that she was waiting for his return. That she’d hold onto his wings forever, just in case he wanted them back. At the very end, she wrote that she didn’t want him walking for too long. She didn’t want him to forget the feel of the wind beneath his wings. I know you hate walking. Maybe I’ll go back and bring back wings for you. I still have your sneakers. (The grey ones covered in dirt?) I have space for them on the shoe rack. Just in case you want to put them back. Hope you’re wearing cleaner shoes. 

 

It was two in the morning when I got that text. I wasn’t asleep; I was running my fingers through my son’s hair. I was listening to the dog snore. I was watching the silhouette of a cat dancing in the building across from mine. I felt bad for her—at least, I assumed it was a her. Whoever she was. Did she not realize that I was a stranger? That I had no idea who she was? Or maybe, she had no one in her life who cared enough to respond. Maybe it was easier to text a random number than to text whoever she was talking to. I read the text about 50 times. I had nothing else to do. My son’s little legs were wrapped around mine. I wasn’t going to wake him up. Would I feel the same way as the old woman when he went off to college? His first day of kindergarten? What were his wings? Maybe it was his little red coat. Maybe it was Mr. Rabbit. Whatever it was, I promised myself I’d find a place for all of it waiting for him back home. 

 

Hi. Are you a floor person? I am. Lying on the hardwood floors, staring up at the ceiling. I think it’s the most romantic part of my apartment. I can’t tell you how many paintings I’ve imagined. They’re never as good as the ones you’d create. But I like trying. I think I’m starting to get why you loved painting so much. My shitty renditions of Monet’s Water Lilies, The Hay Wain, and The Garden of Earthly Delights. They’re all on there, imprinted and tear-stained. You just have to look closely. Sometimes, I wish you’d sneak in, in the middle of the night. Paint the ceiling. Use your oil paints and your pastels. (They’re still on the closet floor). You wouldn’t even have to let me know you were there. I’d know. Hope your canvases are never blank. 

 

I got the text almost a month after the last two. I gotta be honest, I was a little disappointed when the texts ended. I had been looking forward to these little spouts of poetry. Oddly romantic and deeply sad. A bittersweet delight, kind of like dark chocolate. So, when the third text arrived, it triggered something in me. Something almost as obsessive as this girl was. Curiosity. Who was this stranger? Who was she writing to? What happened between them? At first, I told myself I was just curious. A passing thought. But then, I stopped walking past vintage stores—I stepped inside. Every question I had crept out of the back of my mind, lurking into the corners of vintage stores and art galleries. Every quiet moment felt like waiting for the next text, but my phone remained still as if mourning her silence. I told myself I wasn’t obsessed. But I was lying. I had started to become obsessed with their story, almost as much as she was.

 

One day, I was scrolling through my phone, and I got an ad. One for a background search website. Apparently, companies use things like these all the time when looking at a prospective candidate. And it was all public knowledge. All I needed was a name, a phone number, and my answers would be staring back at me. Now, all I needed to do was decide which question was more important. Who was the stranger or the recipient? Ironically, it was she who helped me answer. 

 

Hi. Today, I had the best cup of coffee in the world. I took a picture to commemorate after the cup was empty. (How would I have known it was the best cup of coffee when the cup was full?) I had my first cup in the afternoon. My second cup at night. I dream of you so often that you no longer feel real. I needed to stay awake. Don’t you understand? My being desperately needs you to exist. Someone once told me. Grief is the last act of love. It never ends. It is a translation of love into forever–a sacrifice. I cannot grieve if you do not exist. It exists within my world. My life revolves around yours. I am eternally yours. Hope your morning coffee doesn’t keep you awake. 

 

She sent me that text a month ago.  She hadn’t texted since, and as much as I hoped she was doing better, I was getting anxious awaiting the next gray square on my phone to replace the one before. Recently, I realized. This stranger. Her existence would not have been known to me if not for the recipient. By some cruel joke of the universe, I had replaced the original recipient, wherever he was. I wanted to know who I was supposed to be. Who I had so ignorantly taken the seat of.

 

Her messages had read like poetry—fragments of a story I had come to interpret, to analyze like a high school student scribbling notes in the margins. I thought I understood the themes. Love, loss, longing. But poetry carries a reality, whether real or imagined, and I had never questioned which one I was reading.

 

I hesitated before typing my number into the search bar. My state—New York.

 

ENTER.

 

The screen loaded. A name appeared. ***** *****. (Taken out for privacy reasons).

 

I scrolled.

 

His obituary.

 

And then, another name. Another story. Another ending I hadn’t predicted. Had I been wrong about all of it? The meaning I had crafted, the person I had imagined, the grief I had come to know secondhand—was any of it real? Or had I, in my obsession, become just another reader, mistaking metaphors for truth?​

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Tragic Coincidence: Woman Dies on Anniversary of Boyfriend’s Death. 

 

New York – Nearly one year to the day after the tragic passing of 23-year-old ***** *****, another heartbreaking loss has struck. ****** *** 22, was found dead in her apartment late last night, her death was ruled as self-inflicted.

 

Friends describe her as deeply affected by her boyfriend’s passing, noting that she had never fully recovered from the loss. Strangely, records indicate that she died within minutes of the exact time of his accident last year.

 

"She always said she felt like part of her died with him," one friend shared. 

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Her last message still sat in my phone. 

Hope your morning coffee doesn’t keep you awake.

 

The timestamp: 11:47 PM. I checked the article. Her time of death—11:48.