Anchor

{prologue}

She writes to you when she's sad. I wasn't supposed to know, but one day when her and I were out for coffee she went to the bathroom and I accidentally knocked her purse to the floor. I wanted to steal a bit of the muffin she had bought and as I pulled the piece back to my mouth I bumped it off the table. 

Cliche, isn't it? I found her secret from something so little, so ordinary. There, underneath a super tampon and above a McDonald's receipt was a little red notebook. It was standard leather, like something you could find in any Walmart in the nation. When I held it between my thumb and forefinger it was cold, but the leather was soft, like it had been opened and closed many times.

I'm sorry, because I didn't mean to open it. Well, that's a lie. I suppose I shouldn't lie to you, because you probably can tell when I'm lying better now than you ever could before. So I will edit my earlier statement: I wanted to open the notebook, very badly. So I did. I felt bad immediately after, though I know that doesn't make up for snooping in her things but god was I curious.

She writes in cursive, but I'm sure you know that already. It's not the big, looping kind that you learn in school. It's the squiggly, fast kind that looks like the person writing it is always on the run. It's still beautiful, nonetheless.

At first I had no idea what anything in her notebook was about, but when I turned to the first page I understood. Written in cursive slightly more fancy than the rest of the notebook was a message for you:

I loved you. I love you.

And I knew who she was writing to.

So now I write to you as well, I guess.