Post It

one

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    I take a deep breath and close the door behind me. I don't know if I'm doing the right thing. To be completely honest, I'm scared. I don't know what I'll find today, what will happen. I don't know if I'll ever come out of this alive. I might as well get kidnapped and sold in the black market. I don't know. I have no certainty that this is a good idea, that I'm doing the right thing.

But I'm doing it.

I'm leaving my home knowing that I'll meet him. If it's a him. I don't even know his name, he could be a she for all I know. Or a pervert that's trying to find a new slave. I don't know! But he could also be the guy that's made me smile all these months with simple words and a smiley face. He could be that person I've been waiting for. Once again, I don't know. But I'm taking a leap of faith and actually doing this. Wherever this takes me.

It might sound cheesy, but I feel like I'm doing the right thing.

So I close the door and stop to look ahead. I need another deep breath before I put one foot in front of the other. It's a cold autumn morning, the wind is cold but it doesn't chill my bones. I nuzzle a bit inside my scarf to keep my nose warm and make sure my wool hat stays where it's supposed to be. And after that it starts.

I don't know exactly what's going to happen. He didn't tell me much when he proposed we should meet. All he said was "I think it's time we should meet." And I agreed because I also thought it was time. That doesn't mean I'm not nervous. I'm shaking and that's not only due to my terrible pulse. He set a day he thought we both could make it. All he asked from me was the whole day.

So it's a Sunday, like any other Sunday, with the difference that today I'll meet a stranger.

But he doesn't feel like a stranger. Not for me, at least. We've been talking for months now. Well, "talking." I've never heard his voice nor have I seen his face. As I mentioned it before, I don't even know if he is a he to begin with.

So I walk to the place where everything started. He didn't mention to meet him somewhere else, so I'm assuming it'll be where everything has happened. It's funny because I know we could've met long ago. After all, we both visit the same place every day. But I've never stopped to wait for him, although I could've. He's never waited for me, either. So I guess it's because none of us wanted to break the charm of our dynamic.

So I walk, feeling a lump in my stomach, a nervous knot that makes me anxious. My hands are shaking more than usual so I keep them in my pockets. I don't dare to buy a coffee on my way because I'm scared I might spill it. I couldn't have breakfast at home because I was too nervous. I couldn't bear the idea of putting something in my mouth. Not even a cup of tea. Now I think that was a bad idea because I feel the emptiness of my stomach more than ever.

I get to the park that I walk past every day. The same park everyone in this small city visit, where you always see someone running, or someone with their dogs. There's always someone around. I follow my usual path and finally stop when I get to the bench where it all started. The same bench in which one day I decided to sit down because I was too tired and I was carrying too many books and I was stressed and I couldn't find my phone. The same bench in which I've sat every day since that day, five months ago.

It all started with a post-it. Yes, a simple, all too common, underestimated post-it. A small piece of yellow paper with a few words scribbled, meant to anyone. But I found it. I sat that morning on this very bench and found it.