It was empty.
Nobody there but me.
Me holding a letter.
I quickly opened the piece of paper to appease my mind.
That’s when I realized it was a letter.
To Delilah,
No matter how hard I try to forget, each time I close my eyes, I see you. I see you standing in a blue dress at the top of a hill on a spring afternoon, surrounded by daisies. The way you reached down and gently touched them, not wanting to touch too hard. Your heart floated around you faster than the clouds that made the wind grab your hair. You walked into a world you didn’t create but you create a world for everyone else to walk into.
I never knew what it felt like to love instantly until I saw you. There’s something so simple in that, but it’s not simple at all. Imagine you’re walking down a path. A perfectly clear path. There’s only one direction to go. Tall trees on your left. Taller trees on your right. And there’s this path. You just keep walking the path. You know if you go into the trees, you’ll get lost. So, you stay on the path.
Then you blink.
Just a normal blink.
And now it’s all different.
The path is gone.
You’re standing on a beach.
Sand everywhere.
You’re barefoot.
Sand between your toes.
The ocean waves smacking the shore with a beautiful sound.
And all you can do is ask… ‘how did this happen?’… but you’re asking with a smile on your face because it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.
That’s you, Delilah.
You’re the ocean. The waves. The horizon. The sunrise and sunset against the wall, defying all process of life and infinite space. You’re the hope, the danger, the sadness, the love. Except you’re not sadness, Delilah. I’m sadness. You’re happiness.
And that’s why you’re gone.
I get why you had to fly, Delilah. In my dreams, I mean. Why you had to fly. That’s what you wanted. I never told anyone about that. About you wanting to fly. The way the wind made you feel. The way I would stand close to you without you knowing and wait for the wind. Because it made you smile. And it let me smell your hair.
I folded the letter in half over my hands.
I took a deep breath.
A deep, shaky breath.
I looked around, not sure what to do next.
I wanted to finish the letter.
In a way I had to finish the letter.
But this wasn’t my letter. It wasn’t meant for me to read. It was meant for someone named Delilah to read. I wasn’t Delilah.
Then again, the way the person who wrote this letter loved Delilah…
I wished I was her.
I walked out of my bedroom, my eyes weary and bloodshot. I knew I looked like some kind of hell, but when Grace saw me, her eyes went wide with what looked like fear.
“What happened to you?” she asked.
“That bad?”
“Have you been crying?”
“No,” I said.
I lied.
The letter made me cry.
It made me weep like a baby.
I read it ten times, easily.
The letter made me sit at my laptop and write. Not the story of Josh and his artwork. But the story of Delilah. This woman who was so wildly loved by this other person. And the thing was… I couldn’t figure out what happened. What the ending was. Why they weren’t together anymore. Because if a man loved Delilah as much as this letter showed, then how could Delilah not love him back?
In a way, it made me mad at her. Someone I didn’t know.
In another way, it made me wonder if she…
“You were up writing,” Grace said, cutting into my thoughts as I poured a cup of coffee.
“Yes,” I admitted.
“That’s great. I knew this would work.”
I looked at her, ready to tell her I wasn’t writing anything for Bel. Yet. But I knew Grace. She knew how to twist anything to benefit her. Plus, if it wasn’t for her doing what she did, I wouldn’t have found the letter.
“Did you talk to Bel yet?” she asked.
“No.”
“I’ll call her.”
“Don’t,” I snapped and reached for her. “Please. Don’t.”
“Okay. Sorry.” Grace shook her head. “I’m excited for you. I’m used to guiding people along, as far as they can go. Almost motherly to them, you know? But not you, Amelia. You’re strong. Smart. You know things that you don’t even realize you know.”
“What the hell does that mean?” I asked.
“That. Right there.” Grace laughed. “You’re tough. I like that about you. You’re hard to crack. But this… this writing… it’s breaking you open a little. I like it.”
I forced a quick smile and lifted my mug. “Then I guess it’s cheers to you, Grace.”
“No, Amelia. It’s cheers to you. Open that door the rest of the way. Don’t hold back on anything. Because as that door opens, you’re going to want to take a step out. And that first step is going to change every-”
“I think I need to go back there,” I blurted out. “I’m going to go back there and get the rest of the story. The day after. What it looks like. What it feels like.”
“Right,” Grace said. “Whatever you need to do. I like it. I like everything you’re doing.”
“Me too,” I said.
I took my coffee and rushed back to my bedroom.
The letter rested comfortably on my bed.
I sat on my bed, bending my left leg, hugging it.
I sipped the coffee and stared down at the letter.
… I know there are words you haven’t spoken. Your voice isn’t clear. Not the way you want. Or deserve. Nobody can hear you. But I promise you, Delilah, I can hear you. I always hear you. These paths… I hate them. I hate that I wrote of paths above, because I want no paths. I want just us. Just the open freedom…
I put my hand to the letter.
It was so foolish that this meant something to me.
Yet there
