The bouncers of the club glare at me when I push past them and onto the street, but I don’t give a fuck about them.
Pulling out my phone, I close one eye, trying to see my screen long enough to dial her number.
It rings out.
Voicemail.
Hey! This is Sasha, leave a message at the beep!
I stay silent on the line, even after it beeps, wanting to say something but not knowing what.
“Fuck” I mutter, hanging up.
I watch her from across the room, waiting to see her read the letter I left on her usual seat.
She doesn’t know they’re from me, she has no idea that these letters are as much for me as they are for her.
They started just after her brother died, even though I had no idea what exactly had happened until a little later, I knew something was wrong. She looked so fucking sad all the time, and all I wanted to do was make her feel better. I wanted her to know she wasn’t alone.
Even if I couldn’t be in her life, I could —hopefully— make a difference in it.
She deserved to feel seen.
I didn’t know how true that was until I met her, and she told me about how invisible she felt all the time.
But she was never invisible to me.
I felt and saw her everywhere.
Never in a million years did I think that they would actually make a difference. I thought that maybe it would give her some comfort… but then I saw her glow.
Everything seemed like it weighed a little less on her, she was walking about in a better mood, she looked like she was starting to heal.
So I didn’t stop. I kept writing and writing because forthe first time in a long time, I saw behind the curtain. I started to see the real Sasha Price.
She drops her bag in the chair next to her, and for a second I think she won’t notice the letter, but then she pauses. She just stares at the seat.
I haven’t written her one in a while, so she’s probably wondering why they’re all of a sudden appearing again.
One day I’ll tell her they’re from me, but for now I need her to know everything I’m feeling about her, even if I can’t say it to her directly.
I want her back more than I want to live, but seeing as I haven’t gotten any kind of phone call back, or so much as a text from her… I’m gonna assume she needs some more time.
Maybe she won’t want me back at all, and if that’s the case, then I’m perfectly okay with being in her life through my letters.
It’s better than nothing.
Sasha reaches down, her hands trembling as she picks up the folded piece of paper. She looks around, the same confused look on her face as every other time we’ve done this little dance, and that’s my cue to pretend I’m looking at my phone.
I don’t need to be looking at her to know she’s put it in her bag, she does it every time.
She saves the letters for later, or maybe she just throws them out. I don’t actually know, but it feels good to think she cherishes them.
The guys were right, I need to get my girl back… I just have no idea how I’m going to do that.
twenty-seven
SASHA
