Box of Letters- A New Project.

Due to my desire and obsession, I've now come up with an idea that evolved from a short story to a series. Or chapters one might say. Inspiration came from the obsession and something I did few months ago. But perhaps I should let you read first and tell me your thoughts. Peace out, Hanis.



._._._._.



They said you left me a medium sized box. By they, I mean your husband and brother. The two men showed up at my doorstep yesterday with said box in hand, the sun setting behind them as I wondered if inviting them in would go against any unknown protocols. They accepted by the way, and your husband sat on the very armchair you once favoured so much. The reading chair.


I didn't know who was the man with your brother for the first 5 minutes. All I knew that he looked broken with anguished dark eyes which kept looking at me. Your brother, a mere teen approaching the legal age was like a rock for the 15 minutes that followed those four words.

"She died last month,"


I wanted to cry out my disbelief, that this is merely a joke played on the ex boyfriend. But one look at your husband and I knew it was real. He was silent as I was told of your death. A hit and run. Have they captured the bastard I wondered. I suddenly remembered how careful you were crossing the road. Every single time. Left, right, left. Repeat. Cross. Safety.


"Her will was read last week,"


I saw a glimpse of you in your brother when he looked at me sadly, setting the box on the coffee table.It was a gift box in white with blue stars all over it. A white shoe box with blue stars all over it. I made no move to take it, confusion settling in the fog of shock. Its not every day I get mentioned in an ex girlfriend's will. Someone who I last saw 5 years ago with a bitter smile for me.


You sure know how to make me speechless I thought as I leaned back, eyes sliding from the box to the silent man on the armchair. An odd desire came to me. I wanted to tell him the significance of his seating place. Somehow I thought that one piece of info would give him a second or two worth of calm. But common sense kicked the desire away. Mourning individual shouldn't be told such facts, sense told me piously.


"What's in the box?"


I asked, pulling my gaze away from him to your only sibling. My two visitors exchanged a look before the older one cleared his throat and spoke for the first time.


"Letters she wrote when ... you were together,"


"Oh,"


You told me once you write letters when you're going through something emotional. I suspected I might be the subject of such letters but never gave it much thought. You should have, my heart whispered to me.


20 minutes had passed since I received my visitors and now they're taking their leave, a cloud of sadness surrounding them. At the door he turned to me and once again I was struck by his eyes. Broken. Indeed he is.


"She always wanted you to read them. They were the only thing that saved her back then,"


"Saved her from what?"


My visitors left me with an unanswered question. The sky was already dark when I took a seat on the armchair and stare at the box. Looking around the room, I felt as if you were right there, watching and waiting for me to read the letters. To read words from the past.