J. (freewrite)

Each year, on December 25th, she lay down a letter on his doorstep. She never stayed long enough to see if he found them, if he read them or perhaps threw them away, and she never wrote down her own address. The cruel, cold knowledge that he might not write her back was too much for her to bear.

So, she left it at that. One letter, from her to him. Unanswered.

For the rest of the world, today meant presents tightly wrapped in the dead of night and food around the fire. For the rest of the world, today meant global, generic happiness, but not to her. December 25th was their anniversary - they'd met on a cold winter morning precisely sixteen years ago. It wasn't a day for meetings, surely, it was a day to spend with the family. And everyone had a family. There was no one walking around in the bitter cold, hoping for a miracle. Except for her. And him, both walking back to their respective families, running into each other by accident. He, coming out of his home. She, slipping on the ice and right into his arms.

They never spoke afterward, never wrote each other, never met by accident again. But they didn't need to, because that one accident had been enough for them. She recognized in him someone she'd known, perhaps in another life. Or no, that was just a fanciful notion, a vision in her head. This man wasn't her soul mate, he was just a stranger, a man she knew nothing about.

And that was the precise reason why she'd started writing him.

The truth is, sir, you might think me a fool for saying this, but ever since I first saw you, exactly one year ago, on the morn of last Christmas, we've become excellent friends simply because I haven't been able to stop talking to you since.

And she was his and his alone, it seemed, this woman of fanciful notions and interminably long phrases. For he read each of her letters, listened to her pleas, laughed at her jokes and often at her silliness, he was the perfect confidant, for he didn't actually know the first thing about her. In all these years, she hadn't even graced him with a name. Just a letter.

J.

His J, who might never know that her letters were not left unread or unanswered, as he would not allow a single day to pass without thinking about her, writing her in his mind. Twice, he'd dared as much as to mention her to his colleagues. He hadn't said J, that would be too personal, and he hadn't said how he'd met her. How he had yet to meet her, really. But he'd called her 'a friend', in the way one says 'my friend says' or 'I've got a friend who'.

Perhaps that's what she was to him, a friend. Distant, except no, for he recognized in her more of himself than in his own children. J. knew him when his own wife thought him a stranger. She'd grown to be his shadow, forever with him, though never quite. And like his shadow, he avoided her carefully on that one morning that might actually bring them together.

Surely, if he spoke to her, the spell would be broken. And he didn't want the fantasy to end, so he kept away from the door until well past ten o'clock. She always came at precisely ten o'clock. A punctual woman. An early riser. Like him.

But not today. Today, he watched from the window. At nine-thirty, he was pacing around the living room, with his coffee growing cold and his wife panicking around the kitchen. Today, he would meet her. Today, he would give her a letter of his own.

to be continued...

Story inspired my @mariannewest's prompt 'global'.

Thank you for reading,