Note One
Dear whoever,
So, call me crazy, but I need someone to talk to. And as deranged as it is, yes, I'm in the girl bathroom, writing on the door of the last stall because there's no one else to talk to. If no one answers this, that's alright. Because, you know, this is a bathroom stall after all, and not a person. But I'm desperate, not crazy if you're wondering. So I'm going to tell my story; don't laugh.
What do you do when you love someone so much but they don't even love you back?
~ Sarah
I stared at the door of the bathroom stall for a moment, examining the chipped blue paint that exposed some of the orange layer from ten years ago, and the broken door handle, before resting my eyes on the messy, black Sharpie scrawled words.
I wasn't crazy; rather, I was probably the farthest thing from crazy, and I would never do anything as ridiculous as writing on an abandoned bathroom stall door an answer to an anonymous person who might as well be some random prankster. I had only ran into this bathroom stall because I had forgotten that this was the one that had been out of order for a while, in a hurry since I had to be at the library at three. Instead, I, Cora Roberts, was staring dumbly at the door, feeling awfully bad for the poor girl, whether or not she was real or being serious. But if this girl was both, she seemed to be speaking the truth, and her heartbroken words tugged at my own wounded heart, practically forcing me to write something.
Hesitating, then tossing my black hair back, I unscrewed the cap of my purple Sharpie which I had found at the bottom of my backpack, looked at the angsty words once more, then began to write a reply.