Author: Jenna
Rated: PG
Disclaimer: I do not own anyone depicted in this story.
Description: Learning how to breathe without air can be hard...
Notes: I don't know where the inspiration for this one came from...but I quite like it.
>>>>> Complete
That sounds like an exaggeration, doesn�t it? It�s not. Whatever is in this envelope will determine how I spend the rest of my life.
What, you ask, is in the envelope? I wish I could tell you, but I don�t even know myself. I�ve had it for nearly 23 hours now. I was told to open it when I was ready. I don�t think I ever will be.
It has my name scrawled on the front in his handwriting. His tongue slid along the flap to seal the envelope. And now matter how much I want to rip into it, to investigate it�s contents, I can�t. I�m afraid.
I�m afraid of what he�s tucked into this envelope. Afraid that if I open it, I�ll have to look inside, and have to embrace the fear that grips my heart.
It wasn�t heavy, didn�t hold any weight to it. But there was something inside that made a bulge in the corner of the pocket.
I set it down on the table in front of me and looked at it, expecting it to attack me.
But it didn�t, instead, it just lay there, like an envelope always does, waiting to be opened.
I traced the loopy writing on the front with my index finger, running over the black letters slowly, taking time to drink in the way my name looked, written by his hand.
It didn�t look like his handwriting usually looked. It was hurried or scrawled messily. It wasn�t the handwriting that he used when fans bombarded him at the airport, begging for his autograph. It was more personal, more fluid. Like he actually stopped to think about what he�d write on the envelope. Like the fate of the world rested on how he would write my name.
The ink slightly blurred on the last letter, making a smudge just below the �m�. It made the whole experience that little bit more real. Like having that imperfection there on something that was so important reminded me of what I had to face. Of what a big decision I would have to make.
I just didn�t know if I wanted to make it.
I moved the envelope gingerly out of the way and lay my head down on the counter, my thoughts spiralling through my mind like a crazy kaleidoscope of colour and confusion.
My fingers splayed gently over the envelope, pinning to the counter, like I was afraid it would float away if I left it there. It held so much, meant so much that I was afraid that if I looked away, for even a second, it would be gone, and I would never know what was inside.
Maybe I didn�t want to know what was inside. Maybe that�s what was keeping me from ripping it open. The fear of the unexpected.
The notion that by finding out what�s inside would mean that there wouldn�t be the mystery, there wouldn�t be any sort of suspicion or wonder.
I sat up and picked the paper up, twisting it in my hands, marvelling in its simplicity.
I wanted to know what was inside without having to open it.
I wanted for him to still be here and not have to face this envelope. I wanted to not have to feel scared and anxious about a stupid piece of paper. I wanted things to be like they were, when he was sharing my bed, when we were happy.
I crushed the envelope to my chest, holding it over my heart, tears building behind my eyes. I didn�t want this to be so hard, I wanted to be able to open it without any thought.
It just reminded me of him so much. Of all the times we�d shared together, all the things we�d done. Our first time, lying on the beach just talking, watching old movies for hours on end and eating popcorn and drinking beer.
I guess what I was most afraid of was opening the envelope and realising that I would never have all of that again. I would much rather not open it and live in the illusion that one day he�d come back, that it would be perfect again, I�d be whole.
He�d handed the envelope over with such ease, like it was no big deal. Had simply said for me to open it when I was ready. And then he left, with a soft kiss on my cheek and a sorrowful look. Gone.
And I was alone with the envelope, the god-awful envelope that I hated with all of my being. I hated the pressure it put on my shoulders, the way it just sat there on the kitchen counter, staring up at me with his handwriting on it, mocking me, daring me to open it. I hated all it stood for. I hated that it was the last thing he gave me before walking out of my life. I hated that it was cream-coloured. I hated that it was a business-size envelope. I hated that it was so crisp and untouched.
I pressed the envelope tighter to my chest and drew in a shaky breath. I hated how it had a hold over me. Like the envelope was brainwashing me into internalising the consequences of opening it. I wanted to tear it up and throw it out. I wanted to banish it from my sight for all of time. I never wanted to speak of or see it again.
But I knew, deep in my heart, I needed it to survive without him. I could never throw it out, relinquish the mystery and the apprehension to the garbage. Nor could I destroy it without a thumping anxiety forever present in my heart. No, I wouldn�t ever let it go, as long as I lived. Because I needed it.
I needed it to remind me of him.
I got up from the counter and paced the room, with tears falling down my cheeks, the envelope still crushed tightly against my chest, my heartbeat filtering through the paper, filling my ears with it�s loud sound.
I didn�t know what to do. For once, in my life, I was alone. I had to make one of the most important decisions of my life by myself. I stopped pacing and held the envelope out in front of me.
It was no longer so crisp, no longer so perfect. Creases adorned the front of the creamy envelope, making it look no longer so untouched, so pure. It was like the envelope had been through a rigorous routine and came out the other side looking worse for wear.
And for some strange reason, that gave me a bolt of satisfaction. Like I�d caused the envelope harm. Like it wasn�t so wonderful anymore. It suddenly wasn�t the most awe-inspiring object I�d ever seen. It wasn�t extraordinary or remarkable, it was just another object.
I set the crumpled envelope down on the counter again and wiped my face. I walked away from the counter with a sense of accomplishment, with a feeling of power.
I didn�t have to know what was inside the envelope to feel alive.
I could feel alive all on my own.
With that final thought, with the notion that I could be ok on my own, I grabbed my phone and punched in Billy�s number.
